


Wouldst Thou Like to Live Deliciously?

by st1nkf1nger



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Repugnant (Band)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st1nkf1nger/pseuds/st1nkf1nger
Summary: These are a collection of drabbles I posted on my tumblr. Some are NSFW, some are SFW. Most are /reader drabbles, most involve Cardinal Copia/Emeritus IV, Mary Goore, and/or the ghouls.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Original Female Character(s), Cardinal Copia/Reader, Cardinal Copia/Sister(s) of Sin, Dewdrop Ghoul | Fire Ghoul/Reader, Mary Goore/Reader, Multi Ghoul | Swiss Army Ghoul/Reader, Papa Emeritus Zero | Papa Emeritus Nihil/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: maybe something fun and sensual with a certain Popia and his gloves???

You’ve always been into people with nice hands. There’s just something so inherently elegant about them – man’s greatest tool, and what sets us apart from the animals.

Copia’s hands are no exception, you’re sure, but he keeps them locked way behind gloves. Almost like he knows setting them free would bring ruin upon you. You find yourself utterly fascinated by the idea of catching a glimpse of them exposed, the idea so enamoring that it feels almost arousing. You fantasize not of seeing his chest or legs or stomach exposed, but of those hands freed from their leather confines.

You ask, just once, if he ever takes the gloves off, and get a curious arch of the brow in response.

“Of course I do.” He smirks and moves around his desk, closing the distance between the two of you in a few graceful strides. “Would you like to see?”

Somehow you hadn’t expected this turn in the conversation. You feel suddenly warm from head to toe, and your pulse spikes at his proximity. Swallowing, you give a tentative nod.

Copia lifts his hand to cup your jaw, his thumb moving across your bottom lip. You’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe. Those striking mismatched eyes of his seem to bore through you, and you feel as if he knows all your secret fantasies just by looking at you. He lowers his voice an octave when he speaks.

“Open.”

Automatically, your mouth opens a fraction – just enough for his thumb to slip inside.

“Bite.”

Your teeth close around the fabric of the glove and he tugs his thumb loose. The process is repeated for the rest of his fingers, one at a time, until his hand is freed from its confines by the power of your mouth alone.

“You see? I just needed a nice obedient pet to take them off for me,” he murmurs, allowing his now-naked hand to curve at the nape of your neck. “And you fulfilled your purpose beautifully, pet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: don't have a specific thing but something sacrilegious on the high altar? you know for the vengeful catholics who've always wanted to

“You know, you could’ve made it easier for me.”

Copia’s voice, though quiet, reverberates within the empty cathedral. With your back to the room, he startles you with his sudden closeness. One arm comes around your waist, and a gloved palm rests on your lower belly. “Some people think that satanists can’t tread on holy ground.”

“My dear cardinal,” you say, turning in his grasp and handing him a glass of wine. “We both know that’s a crock of shit.”

“Hm, stealing sacramental wine.” Copia takes the offered glass and arches a brow at you. “I think I’ve been a bad influence on you, my dear. And you were such a good little church mouse when I met you. How far you’ve fallen.” As he speaks, he lifts a hand to your face, moving a thumb across your lips. “I’m so proud.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you purr, leaning in towards him. “We can always go further. This table’s a good start…” With a smirk, you sit upon the altar behind you, pulling up the hem of your clerical robes to reveal a bare thigh. “How’s that for fallen?”

Copia’s mismatched eyes, darkened with desire, travel up the length of your exposed leg. He drains the glass of wine and carelessly tosses it over one shoulder. He approaches you, pushing apart your thighs to make room for him, and brings his lips within inches of yours.

“You read my mind, il mio topolino.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: write something about young Papa Nihil after he finishes on stage for Kiss the Go-Goat and him taking you back stage

It takes you by surprise when he kisses you.

You were so wrapped up in the performance, in the thrum of the music, the movement of his hips – it didn’t even register his lips were on yours until he groans against your mouth. He tastes sweeter than you’d expect. Or maybe that’s the skull paint smeared onto your lips.

The song comes to an end, and you can’t seem to move. His face is so close to yours still, even though his eyes flick to something behind you. Whatever it is that he’s looking at, he must’ve decided it’s not worth paying attention to. His gaze returns to your face.

“You wanna come back to my room, sweet thing?” he drawls, those eyes of his locking back onto yours. “I’d like to get to know you better.” He smiles, crooking a finger under your chin.

A thrill chases down your spine, and you nod.

Grinning, the man known as Nihil jumps off the stage and takes your hand in his. He pulls you away from the lingering crowd, away from the masked performers behind him, and down a dark, graffiti-ed hallway towards the green room. He pushes open the door, pulls you inside, and kicks it shut.

“Drink?”

“Sure.”

He sweeps past you, snatches up a towel, and begins wiping the skull paint from his face. He strides across the room, a sort of lackadaisical swagger to his gait, and pours the both of you a drink. You settle upon the leather couch nestled against the wall, your nerves jumping. Nihil returns quicker than expected, now bare-faced. He pushes a glass into your hand and sits beside you on the couch, one arm draped along the back.

“You like the show, sweet thing?” he asks, after polishing off his drink in a single gulp. He barely even winces.

“It was amazing. More than amazing! I-I really loved it.”

He sits up, places his cup on the table, and in the blink of an eye, he’s invading your space. He studies your features for a brief moment before leaning in and stealing another kiss. This one is slow, breathtaking, _fucking filthy._ Your hands move to the coat he’s wearing, pushing it away from his shoulders as the kiss continues.

He groans against your mouth, one hand cupping your jaw to control the angle of your head.

“Well. This is unexpected.”

The pair of you leap apart and you whirl around to see a blonde, pregnant woman standing in the open door of his green room with a dangerous look in her eyes. She barely seems to even register you – she has eyes only for Nihil. He jumps to his feet, eyes wide with surprise.

“Sister, I –”

“No, no. Don’t let _me_ interrupt you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: something naughty with kissing the unholy papal ring and his vestments and just worshipping His Unholiness

“Kneel.”

Obediently, unquestioningly, you drop to your knees and stare up at him, reverent. In his newly-earned papal robes – royal blue and trimmed with gold and black – and rat-skull face paint, he is glorious to behold. He leans down to you, crooking his finger beneath your chin and tilting it upward.

“You’re so obedient for your Papa,” he remarks, a smirk curving his lip. “What other ways can you worship him, hm?” He extends his hand towards you, now bejeweled with the sacred rings of the anti-pope.

Your lips brush against his knuckles, soft and warm. Above you, he draws a breath through clenched teeth, and murmurs something in Italian. You lift your eyes to his face, batting your lashes expectantly.

“Hmm, perhaps your mouth wants something a little more?” His mismatched eyes – nearly black with desire now – lock onto yours.

A shock of white-hot lust lances through your body.

“Hungry to please your Papa?” Emeritus IV twitches aside the front of his robe to reveal one of his hands palming his cock through those sinfully tight pants. His breath comes in deep, shuddering rasps as his gloved palm cups his bulge, and there’s a maddened edge to his expression now.

You wet your lips, knowing the sight of your pink tongue would drive him crazy. “Yes, Papa.”

“Come.”

On your knees, you inch closer, until you are sitting directly at his feet. You tilt your chin up, meet his gaze, and slide your hands up to grasp the backs of his thighs, nails digging into the meat of them.

With a low growl, Emeritus IV unfastens the fly of his pants and pulls down the waistband of his underwear. His cock bobs free, already hard and mouthwateringly close. Your tongue automatically laps a slow wet line along the underside, from the base to the tip. You lift your gaze and watch as his head tilts back. A low, tortured groan escapes him, sending another searing ember of desire sparking through your veins.

“Good pet.” Breathing hard, he meets your gaze, and cups your jaw with one hand. “Such a good little sinner for your Papa, taking all of his cock.”

Humming, you take him fully into our mouth, until your nose brushes against the tuft of pubic hair surrounding the base of his shaft. Hollowing your cheeks, you pull back and begin a slow rhythm. His hand comes to cradle the back of your head, pulling you further and further onto his cock until you gag. All the while he murmurs praise to your talented mouth and tongue. Before long, he picks up speed, and you can feel his balls tighten with his rapidly-coming climax.

“Are you ready for me, mio dolce?” he murmurs, panting and hissing around the words.

Mouth full of his cock, you can only hum in acquiescence, and he pulls you off at last. With a rough, snarling groan, he takes himself in hand and with a few quick strokes of his fist, thick, hot ropes of his cum spatter across your face and waiting tongue. He slumps a little against the unholy altar behind him, trying to catch his breath. With one hand, he tucks his softening cock back into his pants, and captures the hem of his new robes with the other.

Kneeling down to your level, he tenderly cups your chin, and wipes away his ejaculate with the robe’s hem. He brings your lips to his, stealing a swift kiss.

“Next time, your Papa will return the favor, hm?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: a sister of sin who has never had an orgasm coming on Papa's gloved fingers? Any papa, your choice

“No, no, Sister,” purrs Emeritus IV in your ear. “You must be quiet, or else your fellow Siblings will hear us and we can’t have that, can we?”

You shake your head, wanting so desperately to obey him, but then he presses the pad of his gloved finger against your clit. You gasp in shock and cry out, _exactly_ as he planned. Smirking devilishly, he lifts his free hand and covers your mouth to muffle your noises.

“Under normal circumstances,” he whispers, as his fingers continue their ministrations until you’re trembling. “I would _love_ to hear you sing my name, little dove, but it wouldn’t do for the others to find the new Papa in a storage closet, would it?“

Slowly, he pushes a finger into your soaked entrance, his desire-darkened gaze trained on your face. You moan against his hand, your eyes rolling back in your head, while his leather-clad finger pumps in and out, in and out. Your knees are startling to buckle, unable to support your weight anymore, and you cling to his shoulders for support. His adjusts, pressing you against the wall until you’re secure in his arms.

“That’s it, my good little dove,” he whispers, his voice ragged with restraint. “I’m a lucky man, you know? To give this gift to you, to see you come undone by my fingers…” A low growl of a hum escapes him at the thought.

His mouth finds the column of your throat and his tongue darts out to lap a warm, wet line along your jugular. A second finger joins the first, while his thumb circles your swollen clit until you could sob from the sensation. That band of arousal tightening in your belly is getting dangerously close to snapping.

“You’re so good for your Papa, Sister,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Are you going to come on these fucking fingers for me? Hm? Let me hear you, mio dolce.” 

His hand moves away from your mouth. Without hesitation, you moan aloud, but his lips are there, swallowing your sounds in a breath-stealing kiss. Your climax hits you like a fucking earthquake, rocking over you with tremors following in its wake. He coaxes you through it, his fingers meeting the pulses with perfect synchronicity, eking all he can from your body until you squeal from overstimulation. Only then does he withdraw his fingers.

Now utterly spent, you slump forward a little, trying to regain your breath. He lifts his gloved hand, his two fingers glistening with your slick, and licks them clean. When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Good girl.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: Copia revealing he's a Wererat to his S/O for the first time. Cue rat snuggles by the fire~

“Would you close your eyes for me, mio dolce?”

“What?”

“I have to show you something and…” Copia’s brow creases with worry as his eyes flick to the setting sun outside the window. “It’ll be easier if your eyes are closed.”

You slowly lower your book and eye him suspiciously, one brow arched. The last time he’d asked you to close your eyes like this, he’d presented you with a less than agreeable surprise.

“Copia, if this is another novelty cock-warmer you’re gonna whip out in front of my face, then I don’t –”

“No, no, none of that. I’m saving that for your birthday.” A nervous sort of chuckle escapes him, but it ends as quickly as it begins. He clears his throat and takes a deep, steadying breath. “This is… not an easy thing for me to admit. I’ve been keeping a secret from you, love, and I can’t bear to keep it any longer. I can only hope you aren’t repulsed by me.”

Now you’re a little worried. You slip your bookmark into your book at set it aside, giving him your full attention. He approaches you, kneels in front of your chair, and takes your hand in his. Gently, he places a kiss to your knuckles and you feel his hand tremble.

“Copia, what’s wrong?”

“Please, amore. Close your eyes.“

Still hesitant but burning with curiosity, you obediently close your eyes and feel his hand slip from your grasp. A moment passes, and then two. The seconds bleed into minutes and you fidget, restless with nerves. When five minutes becomes ten, you speak up.

“Copia?”

“…A little longer. Keep them shut a little longer.” His voice is low and rough and raw, as if he’s in pain.

Panic starts to rise now, and blindly, you extend your hands, searching for him. There’s a strange sort of scuffling, scrabbling sound very near to you and fear seizes at your heart.

“Copia, you answer me right now!” you demand, slowly getting to your feet. “Please, what’s happening?”

Suddenly, there’s something furry brushing against your outstretched fingertips. You flinch in surprise, before hesitantly burying your palms deeper into the fur. Unable to resist anymore, you open your eyes. Standing mere feet away from you, its rodent-like face cupped between your palms, is a massive, black-furred beast. Standing on two legs, it resembles a mixture of human and rat, with a long, naked tail dragging on the floor behind it. A somehow-familiar line of dark fur sits beneath a twitching nose. Its eyes, one green and one ghostly white, stare into yours beseechingly.

There are scraps of shredded clothing – a certain red suit – spread around the room, and it doesn’t take you long to piece it together.

“Copia…”

The creature flinches at the name, ears drooping, and starts to pull away from you.

“No, no. Don’t go, please.” You tighten your arms, preventing his escape. Slowly, the pair of you settle on the floor in front of the fireplace, Copia’s large head resting in your lap and his tail curling around him. As your fingers comb soothingly through his fur, a thought occurs to you.

“This finally explains why you have so many similar suits, doesn’t it?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: the sister of sin and popia doing NSFW things hidden from the clergy.

Even though his new position comes with a multitude of responsibilities that often keep him busy, he _always_ makes time for you. Even if that time has to come in stolen minutes inside a defunct confessional booth at the early hours of the morning.

“And you’re sure we can’t do this in your chambers?” you ask, squirming a little in the seat. “It’s more comfortable.”

Your cardinal, your Copia – sitting pretty at his new rank of Papa for little more than three months now – leans in towards you, those striking eyes of his dark with desire. Humming, he steals a long, slow kiss from your lips, rucking up the hem of your habit to reveal your naked thighs.

“That’s the first place Imperator would look for me if she needed something, mio dolce,” he whispers. With a soft, restrained grunt, he pulls your exposed thighs around his waist, allowing you to feel his steadily stiffening cock press against you. “And I want to give you… my _undivided_ attention.”

“Mm, I’m honored.” Your fingers curl around the collar of his suit, drawing him back down for another kiss. When you nibble his bottom lip, he groans against your mouth. “Since we’re in a confessional, maybe I’ll admit to some things.”

“Oh? You’ve been keeping secrets from your Papa, hm?” His fingers trace the outline of you through the crotch of your panties, pressing lightly against your slit until you gasp.

“Forgive me, Papa, for I have sinned…” you whisper. “First sin…” You bite your lip to hide your smile. “I don’t care for your new skull paint. I preferred the old design. So simple. This new paint is too complicated for my tastes.”

His fingers slow to a halt. The look on his face is nothing short of _scandalized._ “I’m actually… a little offended. I designed that paint myself, you know.”

Your smile grows downright impish. “You’re not supposed to _respond_ during confessions, Papa.”

“You’re not supposed to _offend_ your Papa during confessions, ghuleh,” he responds, his voice dropping into a low growl. His fingers resume their work, until a warm wetness blossoms there and you tremble. “I guess I’ll just have to wear that paint the next time I taste between those legs of yours, hm? Maybe the sight of it smeared across your thighs will change your mind.”

He thumbs aside the crotch of your panties and eases a finger inside. You cry out and cling to him, rolling your hips in time with the pump of his fingers.

“Cardi – er. I mean. Papa?” A tentative voice – Aether’s – calls somewhere outside the booth. “Imperator needs to talk to you and Dewdrop last saw you come in here…” The sound of footsteps, first closer and then further away. “I hate this place,” mutters Aether under his breath. “Fuckin’ creepy.”

Your Papa has not ceased his movements. In fact, quite the opposite. Making pointed eye contact, and placing his free hand over your mouth, he adds a second finger to the first and picks up speed. Smirking, he brings you to the very cusp of your climax, all while Aether wanders around mere feet away, calling for him. When you tense around his fingers, he stops.

If it weren’t for his gloved hand over your mouth, you’d likely sob and then the game would be up. He murmurs soothing words in your ear, barely audible over the sound of Aether’s footsteps, and replaces his fingers with something better. It only takes a little bit of fumbling for him to free his cock. When he sinks inch by inch into your waiting heat, you cry out against his palm – he muffles his noises by burying his face against the crook of your neck.

“…Papa?” Aether’s voice is closer now, but neither of the booth’s occupants seem to care.

All that matters is chasing that sweet, sweet pleasure.

“You going to come on this cock for me, mio dolce?” whispers Emeritus IV in a rough voice. “Come for me, you fucking gorgeous little –”

Like a tidal wave, your climax washes over you and you voice it – loudly, proudly, surpassing the muffling power of his hand. The aftershocks of it pulse through you, even as he pulls out and finishes himself on your bunched-up habit with a low, tortured groan. Breathing hard, the pair of you slump against one another, trying to still your pounding hearts.

The door to the confessional booth creaks open, and a terrified Aether peers inside. “I’ll.. tell Imperator you’re busy, then?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: Can we get some dewdrop drabble? I really like the idea of him of practicing with you next to him, he would get faster and faster with his pace until he notices your reaction... go from here

“Mind if I get some practice done in here?”

You look up from your book to find Dewdrop standing before you, his acoustic guitar hanging from the strap slung around his shoulders. Idly, his fingers slide along the neck of the guitar, lightly strumming a scale. All while keeping his eyes trained on yours.

“The others are fucking around in the practice room, I can’t hear myself play.” He scowls.

“S-Sure, I don’t mind.“ Your eyes watching with fascination as his hands move across the guitar, so fast you nearly miss some of the motions of his fingers.

Dewdrop’s face splits into a wide grin, flashing those sharp canines, and he gives you a little two-fingered salute in thanks. Tail flicking with excitement, he strides over to the opposite arm of the couch you’re sitting on, and settles atop it, his feet on the cushion. Despite going back to your book, you can’t help but watch him out of the corner of your eye.

He starts off simply, a few scales and chords, but before long, he’s playing complicated riffs that get progressively faster. He’s playing quietly, but it isn’t the volume of his playing that gets your attention. You find your attention torn away from your book, fascinated by the movement of his talented fingers on the neck of the guitar. You wonder what _else_ those talented fingers of his would be good at, and squirm a little in your seat.

When he licks one of his clawed fingers and you involuntarily suck in a breath, Dewdrop finally takes notice of your ogling.

He arches a brow in your direction, his fingers stilling on the guitar. Face suddenly hot, you hurriedly avert your gaze back to your book, but the damage is done.

“I saw that.”

“N-No, you didn’t.”

There’s movement out of the corner of your eye, and before you know it, Dewdrop’s face is inches away from yours. Guitar left leaning against the arm of the couch, he’s closed the distance between the two of you. He’s crouched in the seat beside you, tail flicking slow and methodical and calculating. He cocks his head to one side, those fiery glowing eyes of his boring into yours.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, honey?” His lip curves into a devilish smirk. “And don’t lie to me.”

“Hands,” you whisper, your mind so addled by his proximity that you can barely string together a sentence. “Nice... nice hands.”

“Oh, these?” One of those nice hands of his slides up your neck, a clawed thumb ghosting along your jawline. “You wanna see what else I can do with em, doll?” He tilts your head to one side, leans in closer, and lightly dragging the tip of his nose along your pulse point. “I’ll be gentle, I promise...”

A shiver crawls down your spine, and you bite back a moan. “You don’t have to be.”

“Oh, shit.” Dew’s catlike pupils dilate until they’re round and huge, and he chuckles very near your ear. “Oh, I’m gonna like playing with you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: How about some Dew, tied up and made to watch reader have fun by themselves? (or with someone else!)

"You’re such a good boy for me, aren’t you, Dewdrop?” you purr, smirking as you lean down towards him.

A low, frustrated growl escapes him, and he flexes his arms, testing the strength of the restraints that keep him from touching you. He’s agreed to be a willing participant in this little game of yours, but you’ve been strictly mum on the details. A fact which Dew _despises._ He sits naked in a comfortable chair in the corner of your room, his arms and legs securely fastened in place. His tail writhes, and another low, cat-like growl escapes him, making his displeasure known.

“Now, now,” you say, tutting. You reach out and gently cup his chin, tilting his head upward to meet your gaze. “Be a sweet boy like I know you can be and you’ll get a reward.”

“You never _said --”_

“Shhh.” With a smile, you straddle his hips, feeling his cock harden against your lower belly. You silence his complaints with a kiss, slipping your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He growls against your lips, and you hear the restraints creak with the force of his arms flexing. “I know it’s hard for you, _gremlin_ , but you have to have patience. Remind me of your safeword?”

“...Bubbles.” He mumbles the word, his cheeks flushing a deep pink.

“Good boy.”

A soft knock at the door announces the arrival of the main event. When you withdraw, a low, piteous whine escapes him, and he wriggles in his seat. Smirking, you open the door, revealing both Aether and Swiss standing in the hallway, wearing black silk robes and _nothing_ else. 

“Come in, boys. Make yourselves comfortable.” You step back to allow them to enter, making pointed eye contact with the incensed Dewdrop as they disrobe, and shut the door behind them. Smirking, you cross the room to your two new guests, beckoning them closer with one finger. 

Swiss meets you first, his large hands eagerly pulling you flush to his body. Satan below, he’s already rock hard and ready for you. His mouth connects with yours in a heated kiss, while Aether sidles up behind the two of you, nuzzling his nose against the nape of your neck. While Swiss and Aether’s hands explore you, pushing at clothing that gets in their way, you cast a glance at Dewdrop in the corner. 

He’s staring at you, breathing hard, his fiery eyes practically glowing. When Aether palms a breast beneath your shirt and you moan in ecstasy, a muscle in Dewdrop’s jaw jumps and the restraints are tested again. His stiff cock twitches, a pearly bead of precum already forming at the tip.

_Perfect._

You pull away from Swiss and Aether, backing up towards the bed, pausing for a moment to slide out of your pants. When you bend at the waist, giving Dewdrop a perfect view of your ass, he inhales sharply. Now in just your panties, you turn back to Aether and Swiss, who are standing close together, palming one another’s cocks for some relief. They’re both watching you with heated, hooded eyes, waiting for permission.

“My boys are so good and patient. They deserve some rewards, don’t they?” 

Smirking, you reach out and draw Aether closer for a kiss, your fingers replacing Swiss’s on his cock. He whimpers against your mouth, involuntarily bucking his hips when you squeeze ever so gently. Swiss, not wanting to be left out, slides a hand over your naked breast, dragging the tips of his claws over your nipple until you moan. The three of you collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, Swiss and Aether at either side of you. 

“This is _horseshit,_ ” snarls Dewdrop, but his complaints go utterly ignored.

Aether’s hand slides between your legs, beneath the black lace, probing gently at your folds. Mindful of his claws, he coaxes moans and gasps of pleasure from you while Swiss’s hands pay attention to your nipples, pinching and rolling each in turn. It isn’t long before you’re a writhing mess, practically incoherent. After a moment, Aether rolls onto all fours, hovering over you. He mouths softly at your collarbone and begins moving southward, forging a trail of kisses and bites down to your waiting cunt. Swiss seizes his opportunity and steals a kiss from your lips, his tongue sliding with ease into your mouth. At that same moment, Aether’s tongue is sliding elsewhere, and you gasp sharply at the sensation. Your hand latches onto Aether’s hair, seeking an anchor.

For several moments, you are the center of the world. Aether’s mouth between your legs, Swiss’s mouth on your nipples, and Dew’s eyes trained on you like a wolf eyeing a piece of meat. 

“I want a turn,” whines Swiss, who has taken to palming himself for some modicum of relief. His cock sits stiff and pretty against his abdomen, just begging to be touched. “Aether, switch with me. Not fair that you get to do all the tasting.” 

“I’ve got a better idea.” You sit up, grab Swiss by the back of the neck and pull him down, effectively switching places with him. As you straddle Swiss’s eager mouth, gasping and moaning as his talented tongue goes to work, you cast your eyes to Dewdrop. 

Every muscle in his lean little body is taut with tension and his tail never stops moving. He wriggles fruitlessly in his seat, licks his lips, and lets out a low, piteous whine.

“Aether, babe.” You reach out towards him, drawing him in for a sweet kiss. “Go and give Dew some attention before he breaks the chair.”

“Don’t you dare,” snaps Dewdrop. “I want your mouth and your mouth _only.”_

“Too bad.” A devilish little smile curves your lip, as you reach out and take Swiss’s cock in hand. “You get Aether or nothing.” Making prolonged eye contact, you lean down and lap a long stroke with your tongue, from the base of Swiss’s cock to the tip. A strangled, muffled groan escapes him and he grips your ass tighter.

“Nothing, then.”

“Suit yourself. Aether?” You beckon him over, and he takes his place behind you, his tongue pressing against the cleft of your ass.

Knowing it’s absolutely _torturing_ him, you force Dewdrop to watch you selfishly chase your pleasure using Aether and Swiss’s bodies. For a few minutes, you ride Swiss’s face, utterly losing yourself in the feeling of his tongue probing your slick cunt. Occasionally, you lap at Swiss’s cock, and he rewards you with groans and gasps that bring you to climax twice before you have to stop him. 

Dewdrop’s tail continues to writhe from his place in the corner, but he says nothing.

When Aether starts to whine, desperate for some sort of relief, you switch positions. Aether sinks himself into your waiting heat, shuddering and groaning with relief, while you take Swiss’s cock into your mouth. With all the attention you’re receiving, it isn’t long before that that band of arousal deep in your belly snaps.

“Ah, _fuck,_ Aether! Sweet boy,” you gasp, arching your back as your climax washes over you in waves. Aether brings his mouth to your skin, biting down onto that space where your neck meets your shoulder, marking you. 

A vicious snarl rips from Dewdrop’s throat, and the restraints creak dangerously loud. You’re beginning to worry that chair might _actually_ break with the force of his frustration.

You decide to push your luck. 

“Come for me, sweet boy, let me hear you.”

Aether nods, eager and so very ready to obey. A few more thrusts, and he pulls out with a deep groan -- hot, thick ropes of his cum splash across your back and he grinds himself on the cleft of your ass, riding out those last pulses. When his climax finally ends, he droops against your back, softly kissing the bite mark blossoming on your skin. A quiet, contented purr erupts from his throat, and he nuzzles lovingly against the nape of your neck.

Swiss whines. You smile up at him, take him fully into your mouth, and slowly, _slowly_ bring him to the edge. When he gets close, his hand latches onto your hair, he snarls your name through clenched teeth, he pulls your face down onto his cock and holds it there. Taken by surprise, you gag, and then Swiss’s seed is pumping into your mouth and down your throat. He growls, low and deep, his cock pulsing against your tongue, and when he’s finally spent, he releases your face. Immediately, he drops down to his knees, murmuring apologies for grabbing, and nuzzling against your neck.

Your arms come around Aether and Swiss, gently petting their sweat-damp hair. You make eye contact with Dewdrop, just to check on him. He’s breathing hard and his expression is hovering somewhere between livid, desperate, and pleading. You just _know_ you’re in for a rough time when he’s released.

When Aether and Swiss are fully recovered, you send them on their way, leaving you and Dewdrop alone at last.

“You’ve been so good for me, Dewy,” you purr, sliding into his lap. Your fingers card through his hair, and you lean down until your lips are inches from his. “And good boys deserve rewards, don’t they?”

A low whine escapes him. “Please.”

“Good boy.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: Can I get literally any sort of drabble of Dewdrop involving an s/o who is also a musician? (Maybe piano?)

“No, here. Like this.”

Dewdrop’s hands move across yours, positioning them correctly on the neck of his guitar. He’s been displaying uncharacteristic patience with you this afternoon, after you’d asked him to give you some lessons. You’re well-versed in the basics of music; you’ve been a student of it for long enough, but you’re only familiar with the piano. Guitar is an entirely new beast.

Maybe you should’ve asked Mountain for drum lessons instead. There’s no way smacking stuff with sticks could be as challenging as this.

“I told you I’ve never even touched a guitar before, Dew,” you reply defensively, watching as he manipulates your fingers to land on the correct strings. “I feel like I’m just wasting your time.”

“It’s fine, I don’t have anything else to do, anyway.” He stands before you, one arm bent behind his back, looking you over with a critical eye. “Again.”

Taking a deep breath, you attempt to play the scale he’d taught you, fingers fumbling clumsily on the strings. You only get about halfway through before giving up with a frustrated sigh.

“I can’t do this.”

A lopsided smile curves Dewdrop’s lip as he calmly strides behind you, tail flicking like a cat that’s gotten into the cream. Humming, he sidles in close, his chest and stomach pressing solid and warm against your back, while his hands overlapping yours on the instrument. At his sudden proximity, your pulse spikes, and you twist a little to look at him with wide eyes.

“Like  _ this, _ ” he says, his husky voice very close to your ear. Once more, his hands move yours, gentle but firm, and guide you through the movements of the scale. “It’s easy. Try again.”

_ Again? _ How the fuck are you supposed to concentrate when he’s pressed so close? A quiet rumble escapes from deep in his chest, vibrating against your back. He’s  _ purring _ . With one hand moving slow and purposeful across your stomach, he dips his head, and drags the tip of his nose along your shoulder and up your neck. Something warm and wet traces along the sensitive spot behind your ear, and a pleasurable shiver crawls up your spine.

“Or… we could take a break… and I could show you a different instrument.” He chuckles, low and dark and heavy with implications, and heat pulls at your stomach at the sound of it. “Guarantee you’ll be better at playing that.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of another prompt -- Dewdrop tied up and made to watch the reader enjoying themselves with Aether and Swiss. Now he's finally unleashed.

“Please…” whines Dewdrop, his voice hoarse and desperate. The bindings on his wrists creak as he tries fruitlessly to touch you.

With a sympathetic sigh, you slide into his lap, one hand skating down to his leaking cock. Still rock hard and ready. As you squeeze his flushed cockhead, smearing that bead of precum along the tip, he bucks as hard as he can with your weight atop him, whining and whimpering with need. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this frantic, and the knowledge that you’re the cause of this desire has heat pulling hard at your stomach.

“My safeword… is rats,” you whisper in his ear, and your fingers move to the bindings on his wrists. “And as a special treat, for being so good… you get to knot me tonight.” You swallow his tortured moan in a kiss, allowing his long, forked tongue to plunder your mouth. With a flick of your wrist, you finally release him from his bindings.

The change in him is instantaneous.

With a snarl ripping from his throat, he launches himself at you, knocking over the chair in his haste. You land beneath him on the mattress with a shocked gasp, but there’s barely a moment to register this new positioning before he’s rolling you onto your stomach. One clawed hand gathers up your hair and tugs it backward, lifting your head. His stiff cock ruts against the bare curve of your ass, sending a jolt of lust straight to your cunt, and you moan with reckless abandon. He laps a long, wet line from your shoulder to your pulse point, and his teeth bear down on the sensitive skin there, overlapping Aether’s earlier mark. Your head swimming with pleasure and anticipation, it takes you a moment to realize he’s speaking.

“--dare you let him mark you, you’re fucking mine. Mine, you hear me? My slut, my fucktoy.” He snarls, snapping his hips forward and grinding his cock between your cheeks until you whine. “Gonna use your fucking holes till you beg for this cock, you understand me? Not gonna be able to fucking walk for weeks after I’m through with you...”

He gives your hair another yank, burying his nose against your shoulder. He grinds himself against you again and again, panting and growling in your ear like he’s actually fucking you, but not yet. Not yet. Just enough to fan the flames. You whine, and squeeze your thighs together, desperate for stimulation. He growls out a warning, and slaps your bare ass until the skin there is tingling and flushed.

Obediently, you fall still and quiet.

“That’s my good little slut.”

Releasing his grip on your hair, he moves down the length of your body, and lifts your hips until you’re on your knees. 

“Satan below, your ass is fucking perfect,” he purrs, and his mouth connects with the meat of one cheek, teeth sinking into your flesh. He sucks hard and you know there will be a bruise there in the morning. Suddenly, a few clawed fingers are tracing your slick folds -- just a quick swipe against your seam, but you moan regardless, whining when he doesn’t continue. 

“Fuck, you’re  _ soaked.”  _ He yanks your head up again. “Open.” 

Breathing hard, he watches with dark, predatory eyes as you lick your own fluids from his slick fingers. Your teeth scrape gently against the pad of one digit, and he sucks in an involuntary breath. You know you’re misbehaving, teasing him like that, but it’s worth it to see the muscle in his jaw jump.

“You want something bigger than fingers to suck on, baby?” 

He shifts to kneel before you. His cock is tantalizingly close to your face now, and you lick your lips in anticipation. With frankly arousing ease, he rolls you onto your back, and angles his hips downward to slide his cock into your mouth. A shuddering, growling moan escapes him as he thrusts shallowly into you and you gag a little on his girth. Meanwhile, he palms your naked tits, pinching and rolling your nipples until you writhe and whimper.

“Look at you taking my cock so good,” he growls, snapping his hips forward, forcing you to take all of his length in one go. You gag, your eyes watering a little, but you want so badly to please him that you merely give his thighs a squeeze.

He reaches out and drags two long, clawed fingers through your slit, spreading your slick over your swollen clit. Your desperate whines go largely ignored, and when you thrash your hips in a futile attempt for more pressure, he presses a hand to your hips to still you. He continues on, stroking your cunt and pinching your tits and thrusting into your mouth until you’re a sweaty, desperate mess with an ache in your jaw. 

You know better than anyone -- Dewdrop has the stamina to keep this up for hours. 

Eventually, he eases his cock from your mouth, moving around your sweat-slick body until his head is hovering over your hips. He inhales deeply through his nose, shivering, and looks up at you, pupils blown with desire.

“You fucking  _ reek _ , baby. I betcha the others can smell you from here… wouldn’t be surprised if they’re outside the door listening to you sing for me.” 

He twists his head a little and sinks his teeth into the meat of your thigh, marking you for a third time. With his fingers, he spreads your lips, and leans in to flick his forked tongue against your clit. You writhe and clamp your thighs around his head, and he immediately stops. The loss of stimulation wrenches a desperate, tortured sob from your chest.

“You want me to fuck you with this tongue? Better start begging.”

“Please! Please, I--”

“Please,  _ what? _ ”

“Please,  _ sir! _ Please lick my pussy, I need --”

He doesn’t even wait for you to finish. With a feral snarl, he surges forward and laps his tongue along your slick seam. Your hands fly to his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp, as he winds you tighter and tighter and tighter. And just when you’re about to crest that precipice and find some modicum of relief, he

stops.

You whine sharply in distress as he pulls away, suddenly sobbing over the loss of your ruined orgasm. Dewdrop presses a hand on your hips, stilling you.

“Such a fucking brat,” he growls, grasping your hips with bruising firmness until you stop thrashing. “Just reminding you that  _ I _ say when you come, got it?” 

You nod vigorously, whispering pleas and begging him to continue.

Purring, he lowers his head to your thigh, leaving more searing love bites along the meat of it, inching closer and closer to your drenched cunt. You’ve become practically incoherent, whispering yeses and encouragements the nearer he gets. At long last, he laps that talented tongue across your clit, and in one swift, calculating motion, inserts one finger and then it’s twin into your waiting hole.

You bow off the bed with a cry, clenching around his fingers and clamping your thighs around his head as the tightly-wound band of arousal within your belly snaps. Dewdrop continues on, his head almost glued to your cunt as he licks you through your climax, fingers easing in and out until you’re twitching and gasping from overstimulation. And still

he

_ continues. _

Just as you begged him to continue, now you’re begging him to  _ stop.  _ You writhe and thrash and fucking  _ wail _ as he brings you to that precipice twice more, before finally,  _ blessedly _ withdrawing.

You lay on the sweat-drenched sheets, just trying to remember how to breathe, arm draped over your eyes. Distantly, you’re aware of him crawling up the length of your body, nestling his hips between your thighs. He buries his face against the crook of your neck, breathing deep your scent. His cock, hard and hot, rubs against your thighs, a reminder that there is more to be had.

“Such a good pet for me. Ready to take my knot now, like the good little slut you are?” He nips at your shoulder, soothing the bites with warm, wet kisses, and draws your arms around his neck.

You nod, even though feel tired and sloppy and you’re pretty sure you just saw heaven itself. Dew isn’t satisfied yet. He hitches one of your legs around his hips, and with a shuddering, animalistic growl, buries himself into you to the hilt in one quick thrust. He sets a brutal pace from the get-go. The stretch of his girth within you is borderline painful already, and you know that it’s only going to get bigger. After the hours of play, he’s struggling to keep his climax at bay, while desperately trying to eke one last orgasm from you.

“Come,” he commands, his fingers clumsily stroking your clit between thrusts. “Come for me, slut. Let me hear you.”

Leg shaking, you twitch and spasm as one last demi-climax pulls deep at your cunt, throbbing and almost painful. As you clench around him, sobbing with relief, he pushes into you. There’s a burning ache as the knot swells within you. Panting hard, you scrabble at his back, clawing for purchase, as his impossibly swollen cock pulses within you. He snarls, each little thrust of his hips moving you further up the bed another inch.

For what feels like an  _ eternity,  _ you remain locked with him, unable to move or pull away. You’re panting and whining and moaning, clinging to him with trembling arms as the knot swells and swells. He kisses you, that forked tongue of his sliding into your mouth to swallow your noises. When you begin to sob from the overwhelming sensations, he nuzzles against your neck, murmuring praise.

When at last the swelling reduces and the pleasurable pain ebbs, you flop beneath him, utterly boneless. Endorphins course through you, and all you can do is giggle breathlessly. Dewdrop shifts, rolling you onto your side, and cuddling in behind you. He leaves a trail of soft, gentle kisses on your shoulder and neck. Already, the sweet siren call of sleep is pulling at your mind.

“You wanna shower?”

“I can’t move…”

“Bath it is, then.” He chuckles, soft and low. “Nothing but the best for you, baby.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: dewdrop eating you from behind

With them cuffed securely behind your back, your arms are beginning to ache now, but he’s showing no signs of slowing down or stopping. His hands grip your hips with a bruising firmness as he pounds into you, and the lewd slap of flesh against flesh is music to your ears.

“You’re so fucking good for me, sweet thing. Squeezing my cock just right...”

You moan his name, preening a little at his praise, and he rewards you with a sharp slap to the ass.

With a growl, Dewdrop drops down, trapping your cuffed arms between his chest and your back. He sinks his sharp canines into the juncture between your shoulder and neck. Your skin is peppered with such marks -- visual testaments to your little trysts. Despite how his tempo never slows, you can tell he’s getting close. His breath comes in half-snarled gasps, and he’s pressing his face against the nape of your neck, mumbling near-incoherent praise to your hair. 

He doesn’t knot you, not tonight. There’s a marked tremor to his legs now, and at the last moment, he pulls out with a tortured groan. Moments later, hot, thick ropes of his cum splatter across your back and ass. Still working himself through the aftershocks with one hand, he gives your ass a squeeze and you feel the bite of his claws on your skin.

“You didn’t come.”

“Huh?” You twist a little to look at him over your shoulder.

“You. Didn’t. Come.” His eyes narrow as he wipes his cum-covered hand on your ass, and he moves to kneel at the foot of the bed behind you. 

Your confusion lasts for only a moment. 

Humming, he swipes that long, forked tongue along your slick cunt, laps momentarily at your clit, and withdraws. You whimper a little at the loss, and it becomes immediately clear what it is that he’s got in mind.

“Fuck, baby, you always taste so fucking  _ good _ .” Purring with pleasure, Dewdrop’s hands spread your legs a little wider, allowing him greater access. “You think I should let you come on this tongue?”

_ “Please.”  _

With a vigorous nod, you wriggle your hips in excitement, and he gives them another squeeze. His hands come to either side of your cheeks, spreading you, and he dives in. That tongue of his presses into your folds, flicking over your clit until you whine. As he tongue-fucks you into oblivion, his purring revs up again, and the vibrations of it have you keening and whimpering and writhing. Whenever you start tensing, whispering yesses and trying to mash your pussy against his face, he pulls off. Just his way of reminding you who’s in charge. After the third time of ruining your orgasm, you begin pleading.

“Please, please,  _ please _ , let me come, sir. Please, I’m so close, I want to come...”

“You know I love it when you beg me, baby.” 

With his cheek resting against the curve of your ass, Dewdrop slides a finger along the seam of you, before pushing carefully into your hole. He pumps it in and out, in and out, until you whimper with need, then adds another. With a low, contented rumble, he returns his tongue to your juicy pussy and flicks it lazily against your clit. Steadily, he increases the tempo until you’re a needy, desperate mess, begging for release. You expect him to pull off and leave you on the cusp yet again but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers and tongue work in tandem, playing you like his guitar. Your climax hits you like the tide, washing over you in delicious waves, and you convulse with pleasure as he works you through each one.

And then he keeps fucking going.

With a growl, Dewdrop continues on and on until you’re squealing from overstimulation. Only when he drags  _ two _ and a half more orgasms from your cunt and you’re sweaty and boneless and exhausted does he finally relent. While you breathlessly twitch and spasm with the waves of your last climax, his hands move to release you from your bonds. Gently but firmly, he massages your sore wrists and arms, soothing away the pain with those talented hands of his.

“You did so good for me,” he purrs in your ear, licking one of his earlier marks on your shoulder. “That’s gotta be some kinda record.”

A hum is about all you can manage as you melt under his ministrations.

When you’re relaxed and sleep is beginning to tug at your mind, he tucks himself behind you on the bed, mouthing sweet, soft kisses to your shoulder. The purring wells up in his chest again, and you drift off to the quiet rumble of it, secure in his arms.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What would Mary be like in a haunted scare maze?

“When you said you had a surprise for me, I was thinking a sexy surprise,” mutters Mary, glaring up at the sign reading _Haunted Corn Maze_ in garish red letters. “This is just fuckin’ stupid.”

“Scary Mary, are you _afraid_ of a little haunted corn maze?” You can’t help but tease him—he’s been whining about the whole fifteen-minute car ride here, begging you to tell him the surprise. Smirking, you slip your arm around his and tug him towards the entrance. “I thought you would be _into_ this.”

“Doll, you know I love it when you call me that, but I ain’t afraid of no dumb shit corn maze.” He shoots you a dubious scowl out of the corner of his eye and stuffs his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket. “I’m _way_ fuckin’ scarier than anything we’re gonna meet in there.”

“Tough titties, baby, we’re going in.”

“Ugh.”

You’d convinced him to forgo his usual blood splattering tonight and you can tell it’s made him cranky. Despite the glower scrunching his features, he allows himself to be pulled towards the ticket booth. Wordlessly, you slap a couple of bills on the counter. The bored-looking girl in a halfway-decent Freddy Kreuger costume inside the booth swipes the money, pushes tickets towards you, and gestures towards the entrance.

“Stay on the path and please refrain from punching the actors,” she says flatly.

As you pull him towards the entrance, you cast Mary a side eye. “Hear that? Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies, waving a hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

“C’mon,” you say with a pout, drawing his arm around your waist and resting your head on his shoulder. “Can’t you _pretend_ to be excited? For me?” You exaggerate your pout a little and bat your eyelashes at him.

Mary heaves a sigh and saddles you with his best attempt at a pleasant smile. “Happy now?” Gently, he gives your waist a squeeze. “You know I’m only doing this ‘cause I wanna hear you squeal, right?” His pretend smile turns real wolfish. “‘Cause you’re so cute when you’re scared.”

“Shut up,” you say, slapping his chest with the back of your hand. “I am not.”

“Yeah, you are.” Chuckling, he leans in a little and presses a kiss to your temple, and the two of you wander into the maze.

Right away, you can tell this maze isn’t for kids. You turn the first corner and immediately spot puddles of something dark staining the ground. You step around the dark spots; Mary walks right through. As you progress further into it, the warm glow of the parking lot’s lights fade further and further, until you and Mary are enveloped in semi-darkness. With a shiver, you press yourself closer to his side, and his arm around your waist tightens out of reflex. Somewhere in the distance—possibly within the maze itself, you can’t be sure—an animal howls mournfully.

“Scared, baby?” he murmurs so close to your ear that you jump a little.

“No.” You shoot him a glare and lie through your teeth. “I’m not scared.”

“You suck at lying.”

When he flashes you a grin, his teeth glint in the low light, and a shiver crawls up your spine. With the shadows collected in the sunken parts of his face like they are, his features briefly twist into a macabre facsimile of a skull, but the illusion is gone just as quickly as it came. Just your eyes playing tricks on you… right?

He’s shooting you a curious look now, his eyebrow arched.

“Thought I saw… nothing.” You give your head a shake to clear it, and press further against his side.

The two of you wind your way through the maze, arm in arm, and things begin to scuttle past you in the corn. It’s not long before you’re on edge from the constantly rustling and movement. Occasionally, actors dressed as bloodied scarecrows or snarling werewolves or maniacal butchers will leap at you from their hiding places, brandishing axes or cleavers or claws. They cackle and howl and scream at you before disappearing back into the corn. You hate to admit that you jump every. Single. Time. Mary only snickers at each scare, but you can’t tell if he’s laughing at you or the antics of the actors.

Eventually, the tension begins to ramp up in earnest. Every little noise makes you jump, and when the two of you round a corner of the maze, several actors leap from their hiding spots and surround you. You shriek in terror, and in the chaos, you’re separated from Mary.

When things settle back down, your boyfriend is nowhere to be found. Panicking a little, you whirl on the spot, hoping to see him approaching with that stupid grin on his face. But you are utterly alone.

“M-Mary?”

No response. Something rustles in the corn behind you and some kind of deep, unsettling growl rises up from the stalks. Or maybe that’s just the crunch of dirt beneath your feet as you back away. A chill crawls up your spine.

“Mary Goore, this isn’t fucking _funny_!” you snap, trying and failing to sound threatening. “Get out here right now!”

A deep, sinister chuckle rises up from the corn immediately to your left. With wordless noise of fear, you leap away from the source of the sound and begin backing up. Your heart is beating so fucking hard in your chest that you worry it might just explode out of your chest. Hugging yourself tight, you scurry away from one side of the maze that seems to have the most activity, casting your eyes around for any sign of Mary.

You don’t realize how close you are to the other side of the maze until a pair of arms envelop you from the side. You flail in fear, but the arms only tighten. A hand clamps over your mouth before you can scream, and you’re suddenly being yanked over the hay bale barrier and into the pitch-black corn field. Your mystery kidnapper pulls you close to their chest, and you feel lips caress the outer shell of your ear.

_“Scared yet?”_ The voice growling very close to your ear is nothing short of demonic, and yet…

You freeze. Why does that voice sound _familiar_?

Once you’re a few feet deep in the corn, the arms loosen and release you. When you leap away from their grasp, you whirl on the spot to see your troll of a boyfriend, Mary Goore, cackling uncontrollably. He’s doubled over, hands propped on his knees, and you see the unmistakable shine of dark red dribbles on his face and clothes. He’s doused himself in a fresh coating of fake blood—where he got it from, you have no idea.

“Mary!” You playfully punch him in the arm, a bit harder than normal, but he barely even flinches. “You fucking asshole! I’m gonna kick your ass!” Despite the sharpness to your voice and the slaps you give to his shoulder, you can’t stop grinning as you playfully fight him.

“Better watch yourself, baby,” he teases, blocking all your half-hearted punches and pulling you into his arms. “Mary’s on the _prowl._ ” Preening from how good he got you, he flashes you a very self-satisfied grin, his tongue poking out from between his teeth.

“Oh, is big, bad, scary Mary gonna take a bite out of me?” you purr, leaning up towards his lips.

“More than a bite,” he says, and with a playful growl, bares his teeth in a snarl, and mimics taking a bite out of you. “He’s gonna eat you up.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mary Goore's your best friend

“Hey, Goore! I got somethin’ for you.” Grinning a little, you approach him in his changing room while he’s washing off his blood and corpse paint. When he straightens, face dripping with water, you slap your present into his expectant palm.

“…What the fuck is this?” Nose wrinkling, Mary frowns at the multi-colored braided loop in his hand. You’ve woven it together with strands of red and orange and some yellows, with some tiny traces of black throughout.

“It’s a friendship bracelet, dipshit. I made it for you.” At his curious arched brow, you cock your head to one side. “Ain’t you ever had a friend before?”

Silently, he casts you an irritated glower.

“…Oh. Well.” Clearing your throat, you shuffle forward a step to take the bracelet back. “I-It’s just a dumb thing I made for you. If you don’t want –”

“I want it!” He interrupts you sharply, and pushes his wrist aggressively towards you. “Tie it on for me.”

Smirking at his sudden change of heart, you tie the bracelet around his slender wrist, and watch as he tugs it.

“…Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Yo, you gotta teach me how to do that shit!” Grinning a crooked grin, Mary throws an arm around your shoulders in an overzealous hug. In his enthusiasm he bonks his head against yours, but he barely seems to notice.

“Yeah, okay, okay, I will, just get off me!”

“Nahhhhh!”

Suddenly, Mary’s hug becomes a headlock, and he mercilessly noogies you while you squirm, yelling in frustration. He just cackles at your fruitless attempts to escape. Only when you find that one ticklish spot just below his ribs and squeeze does he finally release you.

“Asshole,” you snarl, punching him in the arm.

“God, you’re pissy. Now, fuckin’ teach me to do this.” He reaches out and wriggles his newly-decorated wrist in your face until you slap it away.

Mary Goore is your best friend and sometimes, you fucking hate his stupid ass.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mary’s reaction be to Swiss aggressively shimmying at him

_Stupid, sexy demon._

Mary watches the rehearsal from his place off stage, tapping his foot a little in time with the music. Arms folded over his chest and the checklist clipboard tucked under one arm, he glowers and scowls, but it’s not distaste that has him so irritated.

Although he knows he should be paying attention for mistakes in the lights or the smoke or the other stage elements – Satan knows Moth would have his head if he managed to fuck up the _one_ time he subbed in as backstage manager – Mary has eyes for one thing and one thing only.

The fucking _stupid_ sexy demon known as Swiss. Army. Ghoul.

There’s just something about him that has Mary utterly captivated. Maybe it’s that sweet, nearly angelic voice that comes out of him? Fuck, but what Mary wouldn’t give to hear him moan, just a little. O-Or maybe it’s the way he gets so swept up in the music that he _has_ to dance, thrusting his hips like he’s fucking some kind of invisible lover? That’s always Mary’s favorite part. Was it the way Swiss pretends to choke himself with his guitar strap on stage, complete with full body twitches?

Yeah, that could be it.

Mary swallows and casts a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, certain he’s being watched. When he’s satisfied that he’s alone, he turns back to the stage, just in time to catch Swiss’s eye.

The demon cocks his head to one side and saddles Mary with a fiendish, crooked grin. That forked tongue peeks out from between sharp teeth, taunting Mary with its presence. Even from this distance, Mary can see the gears in the demon’s head turning, and before he can even register what’s happening, Swiss is moving. Biting his lip, he shimmies, eyes locked onto Mary’s, crouching lower and then standing as he puts on a show just for Mr. Goore.

Face suddenly hot, Mary lets out a nervous snorting laugh, goes to rub at the back of his head, and knocks the headset off his ears in his haste.

“Shitfuck! Oh, please don’t be fuckin’ broken or Moth will break my kneecaps…” mutters Mary, hastily bending to snatch up the headset and give it a cursory inspection. Still functional, thank Lucifer.

Almost hesitantly, Mary chances another glimpse at Swiss as the song comes to an end. The demon shoots him a knowing smirk and wink from across the stage, and Mary thinks maybe he just might jizz his fuckin’ jeans on the spot.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Since we all know Mary likes to hunt nazis for fun, how would he react if a scum like that tried to go near you?

It’s a dark and stormy night. That sounds like a cliche, because it is, but that’s what’s this night is like. Rain comes in heavy sheets all around you, soaking you to the bone, blinding you.

The only thing you can see is the glint of the knife flashing in the dark and stormy night.

Dark and stormy never bothered you, and neither did the night, really. You’ve always been drawn to the darker corners of the city, to the black underbelly of it all. That’s where the most interesting people tend to congregate.

That’s where you’d met Mary Goore.

He’d been bumming around some shitty dive bar, flirting with all the insufferably hetero dudes there, buying them the fruitiest drinks on the menu with a wink and a salacious lick of his lips. He liked to start fights that he invariably lost, and you were there to patch him up afterwards.

He flirted with you, too, a couple of times. Always pretty words and playful winks and light touches. Even though you knew better than to feed scraps to strays, he was just so damn pretty, just like his words. Even when he was bruised and covered in blood. You couldn’t stay away.

The two of you became drinking buddies, although secretly, you wish for more with him. You think maybe he does, too, but it’s hard to tell with Mary.

You spend your weekends bar hopping with him, going from shitty dives to swanky clubs to chaotic raves. Somehow he always gets inside, even when the cover charge is well in the triple digits, and you never once see him exchange money with the bouncer. He simply slides up to them, murmurs something in their ear, and that velvet rope is hastily untethered.

“C’mon, babe,” he’d say with a crooked grin, and he’d sling an arm around your shoulders and pull you through the doors.

Every time you ask just _how_ he slithers his way into these places without fail, he gives you a different answer.

“Said I’d give him a blowjob,” he says.

“My dad’s the owner,” he says.

“Saved his life in prison,” he says.

You learn that asking questions of Mary isn’t really a game you can win, especially when he’s constantly changing the rules without notice. That doesn’t stop him from asking questions of _you_ , of course. And he does ask questions. About your life, your preferences, your history–Mary wants to know it all. You find yourself being unexpectedly candid with your answers. Maybe it’s the way he seems to take a genuine interest in the things you say, holding your gaze while you talk.

You’ve never had someone be so sincere about you before.

Anyway, it was a dark and stormy night. The two of you are out drunkenly wandering, devouring the pulse of the city, unbothered by the heavy rain or the ominous thundering overhead. Arm in arm, you meander through the streets, shouting the lyrics to your favorite songs and telling terrible jokes in between the choruses.

“Let’s stop and get a pack of smokes,” says Mary, tugging you towards the glowing neon of a 24-hour convenience store.

“I’ll wait out here,” you say, flashing him a grin. “Rain’s nice. Hurry up.”

Mary smirks, bumps his forehead against yours a little too hard, and disentangles himself from your grasp. He leaves you leaning against the storefront, humming under your breath, and ducks inside for his cigarettes.

That’s when the trouble began.

In your stupor, you barely register the arrival of others. You and Mary had been wandering for awhile when you stopped and came across hardly anyone else. Rain tends to keep people indoors, but these guys seem to care as little as you do.

Initially, you offer the group a polite smile, but when they enter the light of the storefront and you see them fully, you realize that these four men are definitely less than friendly. Everything about them screams _threat_ , and that’s _before_ you noticed the red armbands many of them are wearing. Immediately, you avert your gaze, hoping they hadn’t seen you. But you’re never that lucky.

“Well, well, well! Hey there, sweet thing,” hums one as he comes to lean against the wall beside you. He’s much too close and you can smell the stench of beer on his breath. “Who left you out here, all wet and alone? C’mon, sugar, I don’t bite.”

“Fuck off,” you snap, trying to sound braver than you felt, and you retreat a few inches.

They just laugh and close the distance once more. Panic is beginning to rise now, and you’re desperately looking for an exit route.

Without warning, the head of the man closest to you is grabbed and slammed once, twice, _three times_ against the concrete wall. With a pained grunt, your aggressor collapses to the rain-slick pavement and doesn’t move. A faint red trickle is now present on the wall where his head had been. His companions all whirl on the spot towards the source of the violence, and your heart leaps at the sight of Mary standing there, glaring down at the unmoving nazi.

There’s a terrifying, bone-chilling rage in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. As he flicks his gaze up to regard the rest of them, they all recoil in fear. Despite the evident anger boiling inside him, Mary’s voice is _unnervingly_ calm when he speaks. Somehow, this makes him even _more_ frightening.

“Better get the fuck outta here before something bad happens to you.“

And that’s when he pulls out the bowie knife you had _no idea_ he even owned. It’s about the length of his forearm, and you can tell even from this distance it’s wickedly sharp. He flourishes it with a twirl of his wrist, and the edge glints, flashing like a beacon in the dark and stormy night.

Wordlessly, the group scramble to gather up their unconscious friend, and beat a hasty retreat.

“And if I _ever_ fuckin’ see your faces around here again,” snarls Mary as they scurry away, “I’ll gut you like the fuckin’ pigs you are!”

When he’s satisfied they’re gone, he slides the knife back into the holster at the small of his back, and turns to you without coming closer. There’s an anxiety to his eyes now, even if it’s hard to see. Perhaps he thinks you’ll be afraid of him, too. Without another word, you close the distance and throw your arms around his neck.

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you.” You nuzzle your face into his neck and take a deep, calming breath.

Automatically, his arms come around your back, holding you close. A relieved sigh escapes him, and he buries his face into your shoulder. After a moment, he pulls back to rest his forehead on yours, eyes gentle.

“Just glad you’re okay.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt for this one!

On sunny, warm days like today, you find yourself drawn outside to bask. With a book tucked under one arm and a glass of water in your hand, you slip away from the stuffy, oppressive heat of the indoors, and make your way to the Ministry’s courtyard. The occasional breeze and shade from the trees makes the heat more bearable.

Beneath the shade of a gnarled willow tree tucked into one corner, you sit on your favorite bench. Placing your glass on the spindly outdoor table, you spread the book open on your lap and settle in with your feet tucked beneath you.

Usually, you’re left alone on days like this—but today, it seems, is different.

You only get a few pages into your book before you have a visitor. The ghoul named Dewdrop has followed your scent, judging from the way his nostrils flare as he steps out into the courtyard. From across the garden, your eyes meet, and his tail flicks from side to side as he holds your gaze. You’re a little surprised—after all, he’s hardly been friendly towards you in your time here, but maybe that’s just how he is.

“Hello,” you say, offering a polite smile.

Silently, he cocks his head to one side and doesn’t move.

It takes you a moment, but you realize he’s waiting for your permission. Dewdrop is a ghoul of very little words, but his intentions are usually crystal clear. His molten eyes flick to the empty spot beside you on the bench and then back to your face.

“You can come sit, if you’d like.”

With a brief flash of his sharp teeth—you think it’s meant to be a smile—Dewdrop crosses the courtyard and settles beside you on the bench at a respectable distance. Almost shyly, he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, and silently begins to get comfortable. A shaft of sunlight falls across his spot on the bench, and as you turn back to your book, he tilts his head back with a sigh. Over time, he gets more and more cozy, until he’s laying fully horizontal, his head pillowed comfortably on your thigh. You don’t mind. In fact, it’s kind of cute. Like a large cat, he lays curled up in the sun, his tail flicking in pure contentment, a quiet purr vibrating from his chest.

You glance at him, and the urge to reach out and touch his head is just too irresistible to ignore. He stiffens as your fingers toy with the dark hair at the crown of his head, and there’s a momentary lapse in his purring. You hesitate, thinking maybe you’ve done something wrong, but then he’s purring even louder and pressing his head into your palm. Smiling, you continue, marveling at how soft his hair is between your fingers.

Slowly, he lifts his head and gazes at you with those eyes of his, his slit pupils widening into full, round pools of black. You smile at him, but something else has captured his attention.

The sun has moved now, and beams of light catch in the glass left on the table. An odd shimmer reflects onto the paving stones of the courtyard, and as the wind shifts the glass’s contents, the reflection shudders.

Dew’s eyes are glued to it.

Watching him closely, you reach out a hand towards the glass and give it a gentle shake. The reflection on the ground wobbles, and Dew jerks upright a little, his eyes transfixed on the splash of light. A tiny laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, and his eyes flick to you in surprise. Cheeks red now, he settles back against your leg, radiating embarrassment, and puts forth a valiant effort to ignore the reflection. 

But he watches it out of the corner of his eye, his pupils blowing wide every time it shudders.

When you pick up the glass to take a sip, he loses his composure entirely. He launches himself at the light on the ground and slaps his palms over it, like a kitten that’s just discovered its first insect. Tail lashing, he crouches low on all fours, head jerking in time with the back and forth movements of the light, occasionally slapping at it when it’s within reach. He seems to have utterly forgotten about your presence, and you can’t help but tease him a little. With the glass held in your hand, you swing the reflection this way and that, casting it across the courtyard and biting back laughter as Dewdrop scampers after it. When you send the reflection up the side of the wall and he leaps after it, claws scrabbling at the brick, a snort of laughter escapes you.

Suddenly, he freezes. Slowly, he turns a little to look at you over his shoulder, and you hastily set the glass back down. Biting your lower lip, you look back down at your book, but you’ve completely lost your place now.

Abruptly, your book is pushed out of your hands, and Dew’s leaning down now, invading your space. His arms box you in, hands braced on the bench to either side of you, and his glowing eyes hold your gaze. One of his sharp fangs poke out from his mouth as he flashes you a wicked grin. You’ve found yourself playing the mouse to his cat, and you’re not sure if you’re excited or afraid.

“Shoulda known you wouldn’t follow the golden rule around here,” he growls, his tail flicking. 

“…A-And what rule is that?” 

“Always let a sleeping ghoul lie.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt for this one!

“Look, he’s got two hands that ain’t even doing a damn thing and she’s gotta play with her own fuckin’ tits? Christ, this is garbage. You honestly get off to this?”

When you’d made the suggestion to watch a porn with Mary, this isn’t exactly the route you’d thought it would take. The two of you are cuddled together under the covers–you in a baggy t-shirt and a comfortable pair of undies, him in just his dinosaur-print boxers–with the video playing quietly on the flat screen. It’s late and the room is dark, illuminated only by the glow of the TV, and you’re leaning back against his chest, nestled in the V of his long, thin legs.

The video you’d found had been a new one, so you hadn’t actually watched it yet, and apparently it offended him _greatly._

“I mean… I’ve never seen _this one_ specifically, but yeah usually something similar.” 

You’ve been watching for 20 minutes now and he’s not even a little bit hard. Instead, he’s spent the whole time complaining about the lighting, the set, and everything in between. He started out caressing you while making an off-hand comment, but now his hands are still and his focus is entirely on the video.

“It’s fuckin’ _awful.”_ He gives a disgruntled snort, and from the corner of your eye, you catch him wrinkle his nose in blatant disgust.

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Huffing, you snatch up the remote and exit the video. You can’t say you don’t find his attitude a little upsetting. After all, you hadn’t really expected him to _watch_ it. “I can find something a little less vanilla if you want?”

Another disgruntled snort escapes him. 

“No fuckin’ way. Most of that porn industry crap is just a thinly-veiled excuse for men to beat on a woman and I ain’t into it.” His hands move underneath your shirt, and he mouths a kiss to your neck. ”Baby, I’d rather be doing _you_ than watching two people doing each other. Especially when it’s the Marvel Cinematic Universe of porn.”

You blink.

“…Elaborate on that, please?”

“Yanno, there’s no passion, there’s no artistry. It’s mass-produced, poorly-acted, and generally just shitty. It’s just people going at each other’s holes for money. You know that someone got fuckin’ traumatized making it. And they’re always pretending to be fuckin’ related.”

A hysterical giggle escapes you, quickly transforming into full-blown belly laughs. He laughs too–a quiet chuckle muffled by your shoulder that vibrates through your spine and into your chest. You laugh until you’re breathless while he caresses you beneath your shirt, and you can finally feel his cock twitch to life. The laughter slowly dies away, and he hums out a soft sigh.

“See? There’s no fuckin’ laughter in that corporate bullshit. And I love your laugh.” He nips your neck, chuckling when you gasp. “I got the real thing right here in my lap. Why would I want that fake-ass shit?”

His hands are moving too close to where you want them now, so you merely hum, and let him show you exactly how he’d do things if this were a porno.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt for this one!

“Mary? Are you in here?”

There’s no answer, but you hear the soft music growing steadily louder as you move. You look up through the ruined roof of the abandoned building, and see slight movement and the unmistakable flash of something red. Either a raccoon has gotten into some lipstick or that’s the quarry you’re seeking.

How’d he gotten up there?

Confused, you cast your gaze around the wrecked interior and spot a rickety ladder leaning up against the crumbling brick wall. With a grimace, you carefully mount it and climb up as far as it will go–which is unfortunately, not high enough to reach him. With a grunt of effort, you grab hold of the edge and in your clumsy flailing, knock over the ladder. It clatters to the floor several feet below.

“Shit.“

Mary jumps nearly a foot in the air and twists to look at you in shock. He’s set himself up pretty nicely—there’s a plaid blanket spread out on the flattest part of the roof and a mini cooler with a bluetooth speaker atop it tucked neatly against the bit of wall to his left. You’re not sure what this old building was but the view is amazing. The night sky is alive with glittering stars, and the city in the distance twinkles like a bunched-up string of Christmas lights. The darkness of the roof just makes everything else stand out clear and bright.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you scared the hell outta me,” he mumbles, brows knit.

“Fuckin’ _help me,_ asshole!” you snap, scowling.

As he obediently gets to his feet, there’s a distinct ungainly sway to his movements. He pitches dangerously to one side as he walks, and the quiet clink of empty bottles against one another rattles through the still air. He yanks you up through the hole but his fingers slip at the last second and he falls on his ass with a reverberating _whud._ As you crawl on all fours the rest of the way, he just lays there, propped up on one elbow.

You wrinkle your nose at him. He _reeks_ of beer, even from this distance.

“…You been drinkin’ again?”

With a scoff, he casts you an irritated glower and clumsily crawls on all fours back to his tiny nest. There’s a gaping hole in the seat of his jeans along the seam of his back pocket, and you catch a glimpse of his boxers–black and patterned with technicolor cartoon dinosaurs.

Strangely endearing for a man who won’t confirm or deny the rumor that he once fucked a corpse.

From within the pocket of his leather jacket, he produces a crumpled pack of cigarettes and retrieves one–it’s bent and wrinkled, but he simply places it between his lips and begins searching for his lighter.

“What are you even doin’ here?” he mutters, lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag.

“…You didn’t show up for dinner and I got worried.”

He stiffens, turning his head just a little but not enough to look at you. “That was tonight?”

“That was _last night_ , Goore.” You scoot on your ass to sit beside him on the blanket, your thigh resting gently against his. You look up at him, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“…Nothin’. Sorry I stood you up.” Pointedly avoiding your gaze, he exhales a plume of smoke and the two of you watch it disappear into the chilly night.

“You know you don’t have to play these bullshit games with me, right? Tell me what’s going on.” You lift a hand and gently squeeze his arm. “Please.”

Finally, he looks at you–a sidelong glance from the corner of his eye, but it’s something, at least. With a sigh, he scratches his forehead with his thumbnail, and casts his gaze out towards the city. For a long moment, he says nothing, but instead takes another contemplative drag from the cigarette just for something to do.

“I dunno. Guess I’m just… a fuckup. Always have been.” He smiles—more like a humorless flashing of teeth than a smile, really—and flicks away the butt of the cigarette. Hands empty now, he plucks at the frayed edges of his jeans, frowning. “When I asked you out to dinner… why’d you say yes?”

An unexpected question–one you have an answer for almost immediately. You and Mary had been friends for awhile, but it always seemed like there was something more there, some sort of unspoken thing between you, like a thread that tethered you together. There were a lot of signs–that soft way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t see, the way he laughs at all your stupid jokes, the way he seems content to just sit with you in complete silence and stare at the stars. The question isn’t ‘why’d you say yes?’ but ‘how could you have said no?’

Gently, as if approaching a skittish wild animal, you lean closer until your lips are almost touching his. Your hand lifts to cup his cheek. He doesn’t pull away or move at all, but his eyelids droop a little at your touch. In the semi-darkness, his eyes are like pools of ink; twin infinite abysses that lead to who knows where. God, do you want to find out. A little smile curves your lip.

“Because I wanted you, Mary Goore. And I still do.”

You kiss him, the first of many such stolen kisses, and his hand clumsily brushes against your cheek. You kiss him and he hums against your mouth, so quiet you feel it more than you hear it. You kiss him and he tastes of cheap beer and cigarette smoke and plastic stage makeup–and yet you fucking crave more. You never want to _stop_ kissing him. But alas, lungs need air, and you part reluctantly.

He stares at you, those inky-black eyes of his somehow terrifying and arousing and mystifying all at once. You stare at him and say nothing. Instead, the two of you lay back onto the blanket, your head pillowed on his bicep, and begin counting stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt for this one!

Mary Goore’s never actually fucked a corpse.

That’s just a rumor. But it’s a rumor that serves him and his carefully-cultivated reputation well, so he has no desire to put a stop to the spread of it. He craves people to be afraid of him, really. You think maybe he was bullied as a kid and now he puts on this unholy terror act as a defense mechanism. Or he’s just a slut for all things nasty. It’s difficult to tell. Regardless, he puts lyrics referencing necrophilia into his songs, and won’t outright _deny_ it if questioned, unless he really trusts you.

“So you’ve never fucked a corpse?”

“Ew, fuckin’ no. I know I’m feral but I ain’t _that_ fuckin’ feral.” He pops several chips into his mouth and speaks with his mouth full. “I just like scaring people.” He flashes you a wicked, toothy grin.

“I was never scared,” you lie airily, leaning your head on his shoulder and adjusting so you’re tucked comfortably under his arm.

“Man, shut the fuck up or I’m gonna have to start even worse rumors.” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and offers you the open end of the bag. “Maybe I’ll add some other nasty shit to it, like I fucked a goat or ate someone.”

“Both good options.” Smirking, you put your hand into the bag and pull out a chip. “You’re truly terrifying, Mary Goore.”

He shoots you a scowl. “I _am_ terrifying.”

“You are.”

Your smirk stays in place as you pop the chip into your mouth and chew. Mary’s sour expression slowly dissolves as you lick your lips. Just to tease him, you put one finger in your mouth to clean off any chip flavoring, and he swallows.

“…You gonna let me eat you out tonight?”

A little laugh escapes you as you draw his lips down to yours. “Oh yes, scary Mary’s gonna get a mouthful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mary's reaction to seeing his S/O dressed like Carrie for Halloween, blood and all

“You picked this costume  _ just _ to get me fuckin’ hard, didn’t you?” he groans in your ear, his hands squeezing your hips as he presses against you. “Goddamn tease.”

His cock, still trapped within the confines of those sinfully tight jeans, is grinding hard against the curve of your ass—a-not-so-subtle reminder of just why he’d dragged you into this bathroom in the first place. Smirking, you meet his gaze in the reflection and bite your lips.

“Maybe I did. Maybe I just thought Bloody Mary and Creepy Carrie would make a cute couple.” Cocking your head to one side, you hold his gaze in the mirror, smile salaciously, and deliberately press your hips back against his.

“Ah shit, doll… I’m gonna bust a nut all over you,” he mumbles, and his hands impatiently yank the blood-stained silk dress up to your hips. When he catches sight of the fancy lingerie you’ve opted to wear beneath it, a half-strangled moan escapes him.

Almost as if you  _ knew _ this was going to be the outcome. You smile a secret smile to yourself—covering yourself in blood, fake or otherwise, is a one-way ticket to pound town with Mary.

“Is the door locked?” you ask, turning your head to peek at him demurely through your lashes.

“I don’t give a  _ single _ fuck,” he retorts, as he leans forward to nip at your neck. “If they’re stupid enough to barge into a bathroom without knocking, they deserve a fuckin’ eyeful.” 

“But my  _ modesty _ , Mary,” you say, smirking wickedly.

He snorts. “Baby, we both know you ain’t got any.”

With a hum, you lean back into him, resting your head against his shoulder. Rumbling with pleasure, he sinks his teeth into your bloodstained neck and sucks  _ hard _ at the spot, leaving a blossom of purple in his wake. With lust-clumsy fingers, he thumbs aside the black lace and slides a finger against your slit. He groans through clenched teeth.

“Christ, you’re  _ so _ fuckin’ wet,” he says under his breath, pressing his fingertips deep into your folds until you moan. 

His other arm moves around your waist, holding you steady, while his hand slides up and around your clit. Slowly, he sinks one long finger and then its twin into your hole, pumping them in and out and curling them against your walls. You whimper with need, and he buries his face in the nape of your neck. Alternating between sucking on your shoulder and mumbling praise in your ear, Mary continues to wind you up until your legs feel utterly fucking boneless. You have to brace yourself on the sink, your face inches away from your own reflection. Eventually, you resort to begging, desperately wiggling your hips in an attempt to entice him.

“Mary, c’mon. Fuck me already,” you whine, and twisting to look at him over your shoulder. 

Grinning wickedly, he eases his fingers from your cunt and brings the slicked digits to your lips. When your mouth obediently opens and closes around his fingers, his teeth clench and a quiet groan of pleasure escapes him. You suck on his fingers, cleaning them of your own slick, while his free hand fumbles with the fly of his jeans. With a moan of relief, he tugs down the waistband of his boxers and his cock  _ finally _ bobs free—rock hard and already leaking. In a single, brutal thrust, he pushes into you, growling in your ear as he sinks in to the hilt. You brace yourself against the mirror, cheek to cheek with your own reflection. With his shirt held between his teeth, his hands are free to grasp your hips, yanking you back onto his cock with every thrust. The sound of his hips slapping against your ass, punctuated by your gasps and moans and whispered encouragements, are drowned out by the sound of partying downstairs.

One of his hands leaves your hip to wrap around your throat, and he pulls you back as he leans in. His teeth sink into your pulse point and he sucks again, marking you for the thousandth time.

“You gonna fuckin’ come on this cock?” he asks, his voice a low growl that has your toes curling. “Wanna hear you moan my name, babydoll. Moan so everyone can hear you.” 

“Harder, Mary, I’m—”

His fingers on your throat squeeze ever so slightly, cutting off your words, and the edges of your vision blur. You gasp as your climax hits you like a fucking tidal wave, and your legs tremble a little with the force of it. He thrusts,  _ hard _ , grunting low and rough in your ear as his cock kicks and twitches inside you. Each little pulse sends a shiver down your spine, accompanied the unmistakable feel of his hot jizz filling you.

With a steadying breath, his hand eases off your throat, gently massaging it to ease any soreness. While you recuperate, he adjusts himself and helpfully gets your dress back to rights. Humming, he mouths sweet kisses to the purpling bruises and bitemarks along your shoulder. Smirking, he looks at your reflection in the blood-smeared mirror.

“Wow, baby. You look like a fucking nightmare.” His smirk blossoms into a wicked grin. “I fucking love it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mary at the local karaoke bar singing KISS's I Was Made For Loving You while making eye contact with you

He’s been flirting with you for weeks now–buying you drinks, chatting you up, inventing wild falsehoods with every breath–the whole shebang. Normally, karaoke bars aren’t your thing, but with the allure of him being there, you find yourself going as often as possible.

He’s cute–charming, even. He has this whole gritty, nasty _‘I’ll fucking kill you if you look at me’_ vibe that just does things to you, but somehow, he’s soft, too. Everything about him, from his theatrical bloodied face to the fishnet tights beneath his artfully ripped jeans seemed to be perfectly engineered to make you melt.

And boy fucking _howdy_ do you melt.

He calls himself Mary Goore. You think maybe it’s some kind of joke–with the bloodied face and all–but you’re not sure you get the punchline.

You, by comparison, are downright average. You dress in clothing that’s comfortable, you’re no supermodel, and you don’t really stick out in a crowd. But you can’t pretend it didn’t feel nice to be the center of _someone’s_ world for a change. Even if a tiny part of you wonders about his ulterior motives–guys like him don’t usually go for people like you. Regardless, you let him buy you drinks, you clumsily attempt to reciprocate his flirting, you swallow every outrageous lie he spins for you.

“You wanna sing with me tonight, sweet thing?” he asks after his usual round of drinks. He’s opted to slide into the booth beside you tonight, as opposed to across from you, and his lean thigh is resting against yours. Lazily, he leans on the table, his chin planted in his palm. He’s practically fucking horizontal, watching you like he always does with those gorgeous, intense eyes of his.

You’ve only known him for a short time, but one of the first things you learned about Mary was that he likes to watch.

“Oh, you don’t wanna hear my caterwauling,” you reply demurely, licking your lips to clean them from the stickiness of your drink. “I’d clear this place out in record time.” You offer him a little smile.

Mary’s eyes flick down to your tongue as it peeks out of your mouth. His gaze lingers there for a moment.

“Can’t be worse than this,” he replies eventually. He lets his head fall from his hand to pillow on his bicep and jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the stage.

A couple of drunken sorority girls have been utterly usurping the largest karaoke machine tonight, warbling song after song while the rest of the patrons stuff their fingers in their ears. No one has been able to remove them. If you had to guess, you’d say their secret weapon is the girl who can cry on command–anyone who approaches seems to back off the second she begins blubbering. One of them attempts a particularly difficult high note and you swear you hear glass breaking somewhere in the bar.

“God, fuckin’ kill me,” groans Mary, turning to place his chin flat on the table and clapping his hands over both ears, his face pinched in anger. “This has _gotta_ be as close as we mortals can come to Hell.”

You laugh at his theatrics. “What do you want to sing?”

“I don’t know, I think my brain is trying to shut itself down to save me.”

With a snort of laughter, you poke him in the ribs and he twitches. “Then get up there and put a stop to it, Mare.”

He flashes you a little smirk, sending a shock of electric lust straight through you. You swallow hard. With an odd sort of ungainly grace, he slides out of the booth and begins threading his way through the ocean of tables and chairs to the stage. You watch him the whole time, unable to tear your eyes away. Under normal circumstances, patrons wait until the current performance is over, but Mary’s patience has reached its end.

Wordlessly, he takes the stage in the middle of a particularly pitchy rendition of A Thousand Miles, and unceremoniously yanks the microphone away from the sorority girls. The crier attempts her gimmick, but Mary just flashes her a murderous glare until they all scramble offstage.

A light smattering of applause rises from the crowd–you included–as he fiddles with the machine and switches off the current song.

“That had to fuckin’ stop,” he says into the microphone as he queues up another song, “I hope, with time, you can all forgive me for being so rude,” he deadpans.

The crowd laughs, and Mary catches your eye as he places the microphone on the stand and adjusts it. Smirking, he winks at you, and the song begins.

_Y_ ou recognize the song immediately.

_Tonight I want to give it all to you  
In the darkness  
There’s so much I want to do  
And tonight I want to lay it at your feet  
‘Cause girl, I was made for you  
And girl, you were made for me _

While making uninterrupted eye contact with you, Mary croons out the words, swaying a little in time with the music. His expression is gentle and his eyes are hooded–almost sultry, and his voice is downright fucking angelic. You swallow hard, watching him serenade you with wide eyes.

_I was made for lovin’ you baby_   
_You were made for lovin’ me_   
_And I can’t get enough of you baby_   
_Can you get enough of me_

He continues on, nailing every note and taking your very breath away. You’ve never heard him sing before–you always had him pegged for your typical death metal growler, all feral snarls and guttural noise. But this? Holy shit, this is beautiful. He sings the whole song while watching you watch him, occasionally flashing you that charming, crooked smile.

You have to get to that stage.

When he finishes, he gives the applauding audience a single, lazy two-fingered salute as if he didn’t just rock their fucking worlds with his voice. There are a few people waiting for him as he exits, but he has eyes for you and only you. You’ve made your way from the booth to the stage in record time and you’re waiting as he descends the staircase. He pushes his way through the little crowd that’s gathered there, ignoring their disappointed looks, and throws an arm around your shoulders.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here, yeah? I know a good alleyway out back.” He flashes you a predatory grin, and begins leading you out the back door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt for this one!

Usually, the cemetery is empty.

It’s a part of the reason why he spends so much time there in the first place–the distinct _lack_ of people. People are fucking annoying. They stare and make judgements and ask weird ass questions. So, when he can’t stand being around them anymore, he escapes to the quiet sanctity of his favorite sepulcher.

Maybe that’s strange, but Mary doesn’t give a single fuck.

On nights like this, when he’s wandering aimlessly through the silent forest of headstones and having conversations with the dead, he usually meets very few of the living. And he prefers it that way. But sometimes, the Fates see fit to throw him for a fucking loop.

He watches them from a distance as they loudly enter his sanctum, one of them carrying what looks like a wriggling burlap sack. Their cruel cackles echoing through the foggy night air, the group of boys make their way through the cemetery until they come to the lake’s edge. Unceremoniously, the one bearing the sack tosses his burden into the dark water. They all high five, and scurry away.

Christ, he despises the living.

He _should’ve_ taken his Bowie knife to each of their fucking throats. He wanted to, really, but he was more concerned with whatever clearly living thing they’d dumped.

He waits for a second–scowling after the gaggle of boys while wishing for them to all catch the clap–before wading into the waist-deep, icy water and retrieving the soggy parcel. The bundle had only been submerged for a minute or two, but in that short period of time, whatever was inside had stopped moving. Fear clutches at his chest and he hurriedly scrambles back onto the shore.

Sitting with his back against a gravestone, Mary places the sack between his knees and hurried wrenches open the drawstring. Inside, mewling weakly, are several tiny, wet, shivering black and grey kittens. They blink up at him–some are missing eyes, some are missing ears, some are missing limbs. They look barely old enough to be away from their mother, and he can only guess what those assholes had done to _her._

His heart, black and twisted though it might be, squeezes a little at the sight of them.

Gently, he fishes each one from the sodden bag–six in total–and dries them to the best of his ability with the hem of his sleeveless shirt. It’s a lot harder than it looks. They wriggle and squeak in his grip–it’s difficult to find a balance between holding them firmly enough but not crushing them. When they’re no longer in immediate danger of death by hypothermia, he places them on the ground. They toddle around him like tiny, fuzzy bumper cars, mewling and squeaking and clambering onto his thin legs with their razor sharp claws.

Once they’re all dry and no longer shivering, he dislodges them from his legs and gets to his feet as carefully as he can.

“Okay, well… uh. Happy to help. Good luck out there,” he says to the kittens, grimacing. He never was great with animals. Hopefully some mother cat would find them and take care of them because he sure as shit couldn’t.

For a moment more, he stares at the tiny little creatures, warring with himself. Nah, nah, this is for the best. He starts to leave, his long legs carrying him swiftly away, but he hears their tiny little squeaky mews hot on his heels. With a sigh, he turns and watches the six new additions to his life clumsily bound after him.

“Shitfuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mary sees the reader at a gas station or a store, as they're walking home a creepy guy starts hitting on them and Mary shows up to kick ass and take names

It’s late. Way too late to be out, but here you are. When the insomnia hits, it tends to hit hard, and you take to wandering, ravenously devouring the pulse of the city you call home. For the most part, you’re left alone by the other night owls. You carry a switchblade and pepper spray just in case, of course, but they hardly see any use and you’re grateful for that.

On one such night, you’ve wandered to a nearby 24-hour drug store in search of impulse purchases. You leave the convenience store, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and place your earbuds back into your ears. With slow, heavy metal blaring from your phone, you don’t notice the footfalls of the menacing man following only a few feet behind you.

Suddenly, a leather-clad arm materializes out of thin air and snakes around your shoulders. Startled at the unexpected contact, you practically rip your earbuds out in shock and try to jerk away. The arm remains tight around you, pinning you close to a lean torso.

“Hey, what the fuck–”

_“There_ you are, babydoll. Been lookin’ everywhere for you. Told you to wait for me at the shop,” interrupts the owner of said arm, in a voice that is much too loud.

The thin young man now at your side, gently but firmly pulling you down the darkened sidewalk, is a complete fucking stranger. He’s tall and ruggedly handsome–in a nasty gutter punk kind of way–with his black hair pulled into a messy devil lock that obscures a good chunk of his face, and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. With wide, panicked eyes, you stare up at him, bewildered, and he leans closer to whisper in your ear.

“Play it cool–there’s some fuckin’ creeper following you.”

Icy fears steals into your veins. Heart pounding, you allow yourself to be led down the street, stiff as a corpse beneath this guy’s arm. Whoever this stranger is, he certainly seems on the up-and-up, but for all you know, he could be in cahoots with your stalker. A tag-team sort of thing–he pretends to be your savior and leads you to an alley where he and his buddy take turns with you. Your anxious mind spins possibility after possibility, each more awful than the last. You try to twist a little to catch a glimpse of the man following you, but the string bean’s grip on your shoulders is like iron. For now, you have no choice but to trust this mystery man.

For several minutes, you walk in step, the tall stranger at your side occasionally muttering words of comfort into your ear.

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna let him fuckin’ hurt you, I promise.”  
“Fucker’s been following us for like ten minutes.”  
“I’m gonna knock his fuckin’ teeth in.”

The minutes seem to drip by at a snail’s pace. By the time your mystery stranger guides you into a nearby alley, you’re trembling with nerves. Whatever’s coming is not going to be pleasant, you can already tell. Your hand slips into the pocket of your coat and closes around the switchblade inside. As the cold steel presses into your palm, you feel a modicum of relief, and your racing pulse slows a little.

About halfway down the alley, your stranger comes to a stop. His arm slips from your shoulders and as he turns to face your stalker, he gently pushes you behind him with one hand. Your fingers latch onto the sleeve of his leather jacket automatically, and it’s startling how much calmer you immediately feel. He flashes you a reassuring glance over his shoulder.

The stalker also comes to a halt, several feet away, and the two of them stare one another down.

“Alright, shit-for-brains, it’s about time you fucked off, yeah? They’re not interested in whatever you’re selling,” snarls your stranger.

“Why don’t you let them speak for themselves, then?” rasps the stalker, his voice sending a chill down your spine, and he takes a step forward. “Maybe if I hear it from their mouth–”

“Come any fuckin’ closer and you’re gonna be eating your own goddamn teeth,” replies your stranger, his stance widening a little as he prepares for the inevitable scuffle.

“How about you make me, you fuckin’ qu–”

The rest of the stalker’s sentence, however, is interrupted. In one lightning-fast movement, your stranger lunges for the stalker and tackles him to the ground. Frozen in terror, you can only watch on as they wrestle like two feral dogs, snarling and yelling and grunting. They trade blows for several minutes–your stranger getting in several good hits for every one of your stalker’s. Every punch and kick your stranger takes makes you flinch, but it only seems to spur him on until he’s practically rabid. Eventually, your beanpole savior is victorious, cackling like a madman as your would-be rapist runs off with his tail between his legs.

Breathing hard and sporting a rapidly purpling bruise on his cheek, your savior levers himself onto unsteady legs with a grunt. Wiping blood from his nose and mouth with the back of his hand, he shouts after the hastily retreating stalker.

“Yeah, you better run, you piece of shit coward! If I ever catch you around here again, I’ll fuckin’ _gut you_ like a goddamn pig and wear your entrails as _a scarf!”_

The adrenaline seems to drain from him all at once. Slowly, he turns back to you, and spits blood onto the pavement. Suddenly, he looks absolutely exhausted.

“You okay?” he asks, in a rough voice.

Your heart swells. This strange, gangly man just took a vicious beating for you and has the temerity to ask if _you’re_ okay. Slowly, you approach him, fish out a tissue from the pack you keep in your pocket, and reach out to wipe the blood from his face. He flinches a little as you press on his bruise, but his eyes are gentle as they regard you.

“I’m okay, thanks to you.” Gently, you wipe him clean. “What’d you do that for?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t just sit back and let something like that happen, could I? The fuck kinda dickhead wouldn’t step in when someone was in trouble?” He tries to wrinkle his nose, but it just turns into a wince of pain. He clears his throat. “…Anyway, uh… it was no trouble, really.”

“You’d better let me take you home and clean you up,” you say quietly, ghosting a thumb over his lip.

His brow furrows a little and his eyes become wary. “You don’t gotta do that, I’m fine.”

“I know,” you reply, and give him a little smile. “I want to, though. What’s your name?”

“…Mary. Mary Goore.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mary on sex pollen

Opening it had been a mistake, he recognizes that now.

Just after you’d left for work, the doorbell rang. Despite the fact that it’s early for mail and he wasn’t expecting visitors, Mary set aside his guitar and answered the door. Maybe this was the new strings he’d ordered weeks ago. Instead of the usual mail carrier, however, there was a tall, strange man in all black clothing wearing a horned silver mask standing on the porch. 

Mary blinks at him in surprise. “...Can I help you?”

“Package,” says the masked man in a quiet voice, and he pushes the nondescript box into Mary’s hands without another word.

“Uhh…” 

When Mary looks up, the masked man is gone.

The package bears your name, and Mary’s not the kind of boyfriend who goes snooping through your personal shit. At least not right away. After another cursory looking over—and discovering there’s no return address—he sets the box on the dining room table and goes back to his guitar. He really needs to get some practice in.

But the package’s existence _taunts him._

He tries his best to ignore it, but Mary’s never been the best at self control. He finds himself casting surreptitious glances at the innocuous little box every couple of minutes, wondering just what you could’ve ordered. Eventually, he can’t take it anymore. With a frustrated snarl, he leaps to his feet and crosses to the table, intent upon satisfying his burning curiosity. But he hesitates, indecision gnawing at his gut. This is _your_ package. Is he really going to just rip it open like an impatient toddler at Christmas?

Yes. Yes, he is.

Like taking off a bandaid too early, he tears into the brown paper and hastily opens the box. When the packaging is finally removed, a beautiful flower growing inside black terracotta pot sits on the table. Its multitude of pointed petals are a deep, rich burgundy and its long, curved stem is a pale green. Mary is by no means an expert on plants, but he’s never seen a flower like this in his life. Frowning, he leans down to inspect the silver symbols painted onto the sides of the plant’s pot.

The moment he gets closer, however, the flower suddenly spasms, and a cloud of hot pink pollen erupts from the center of the petals. In shock, Mary jerks back and gasps, inhaling the entire pink mist into his mouth and nose. Immediately, his throat stings like he just swallowed a hot coal and his nose itches. Coughing and sniffling, he scrubs at his now teary eyes with the heel of his hands.

“Agh!! Shit! What the fuck was that??” he snarls at the plant, as if he expects it to answer him somehow. “Ugh, _gross,_ it’s in my mouth!” Tongue sticking out, he repeatedly smacks his lips like a kid that just had his first taste of lemon, his whole face wrinkling in disgust. “Christ. Now I’m gonna fuckin’ die of weird ass plant flu or some shit.”

Angry at himself for even fucking around with this stupid package and disappointed that the box didn’t hold anything more interesting, Mary shoots the flower an irritated glare. Muttering under his breath, he returns to the living room and snatches up the TV remote. Trying to forget about the whole stupid thing, he lounges comfortably on the couch and turns the TV on to something mindless.

But now he can’t seem to focus.

It’s not _unusual_ for Mary to get hard out of nowhere. Sometimes his thoughts wander to your soft thighs and the sounds you make when he’s got his head between them, and he just can’t help himself. But this? His mind is, for once, focused almost entirely on the TV. But his dick is hard as a fucking rock. He shifts uncomfortably and glares down at the tent he’s pitched in his sweats.

“Why?” he asks impatiently, gesturing to his hard cock in irritation. “Why are you fuckin’ like this? I just want to watch How It’s Made in peace!”

His cock twitches. It’s almost painfully hard now, and quickly becoming distressing. It feels hot—almost like it’s _burning._ With a sigh, he lifts his hips and pushes down his sweats a little to free the offending member. Automatically his hand circles his cock and he strokes himself with a loose grip, his thumb swiping the pre that’s already beaded at the tip. A quiet rumble of pleasure escapes him as he leans his head back, losing himself in the sensation of his hand and pretending that it’s your sweet pussy. After a few strokes, he reaches for the lotion you keep on the side table and pumps a generous portion into his palm.

“Alright, fuck, if this’ll make you happy,” he mutters to his dick, as his hand picks up speed. “Then it’s back to TV, okay? She ain’t gonna be back for awhile.”

With his thoughts now decidedly less focused on the manufacture of steel wool, it doesn’t take long for Mary to reach that delicious peak. The lewd sounds of the lotion squelching around his cock is helping things along, too. Groaning through clenched teeth, Mary’s whole body tenses as his cock kicks in his fist, drooling hot cum over his fingers and down his shaft. He moans, giving the sensitive head a squeeze, and his hips twitch with each pulse of his orgasm. As he works himself through the aftershocks, he heaves a satisfied sigh, and reaches for the box of tissues on the coffee table to clean himself off.

But still his cock remains hard.

Bewildered, he stares at it, brows furrowed. “The fuck do you want from me? Be satisfied and leave me the fuck alone for five minutes.”

Frustrated with his own body, he tucks his still hard cock back into his boxers and attempts to ignore it. But even after twenty minutes and an entire episode on how they make English toffee, it’s still hard. His skin is dewy with sweat and tingling all over now. He feels _hot._ In minutes, poor Mary finds himself wriggling around on the couch in a fruitless attempt to get comfortable. It’s no use.

With a growl of frustration, he leaps to his feet, yanks off his sweatpants and tank top and throws them into the armchair. In just his boxers now, he sits back down, hoping this will provide relief.

It does not.

“What the fuck is happening?” he whines, dragging his hand through his hair and staring down at his leaking dick. “Christ, I’m so goddamn horny, I could fuck a chicken sandwich.”

Fortunately, Mary has sense enough to _not_ do that. Where would he even find a chicken sandwich at this time of day anyhow?

Instead, he opts for blasting rope with lotion again. Hopefully this time it’ll work. Sometimes his dick needs a double dipping before it’s content. His hand flies on his cock, desperately seeking release, and he comes in record time. His jizz is thinner now and he _should_ be done, but there’s no change to his dick’s rock hard status. So he does it again. And again. And _again._ After his _fifth_ time jacking off, he’s beginning to worry. _What the fuck has that flower done to me?_ His exhausted and chafed dick won’t produce cum anymore, but neither will it soften. It starts to _hurt_ to touch it, but it hurts to _not_ touch it, too. Desperation is clawing at his insides as his dick throbs with some unmet need.

“Ugh, fuck this. You got enough, now go to sleep!” he snarls at is cock, glaring at it in defiance.

He tries, fruitlessly, to lay on the couch and ignore it, but like trying to ignore being doused in gasoline and set ablaze, it’s fucking impossible. He _has_ to nut again.

This is it. This is how he dies.

Whining with need, he turns to humping a pillow to get himself off. It helps the sting a little, but not enough. His skin is on fucking _fire_ —burning hot and slick with sweat and tingling like a livewire. Still, he can’t find relief. It’s been _hours_ and he’s worked himself into a frenzy by the time the afternoon rolls around. Mary’s frustration is reaching its apex; he’s on the verge of tears. A thrill shoots through his whole body when he hears the front door click open.

_Oh, thank Christ._

“Mary?” you call, as you toe off your shoes and kick them aside, “I’m home! Where are—”

Suddenly, your boyfriend is there in front of you, half-naked and sweaty, with a wild, manic expression painted on his face. He’s breathing hard, his hair is an absolute mess, and he looks like he might’ve been crying. 

“Please,” he rasps, grabbing your shoulders and pinning you roughly against the door, _“gotta_ fuck you. _Need_ your pussy around my dick, babygirl. Please please please—”

“M-Mary, are you okay? What’s going on?”

“I don’t _know!”_ he whines, face pinched in worry. “I don’t fucking know. I’m so fuckin’ horny. My dick _hurts._ Can’t cum anymore but I-I... need to fuck you. Here. Right now. _Please,_ baby _.”_ Desperate and practically incoherent with need, he kisses you hard and drags your hand down to his groin.

When you cup his cock through the material of his boxers, a ragged, tortured moan escapes him. A lance of white-hot lust pierces you at the sound, going straight to your pussy, and you’re wet almost immediately. With shaking hands, he yanks your shirt off and crowds into your space even further, urgently needed skin to skin contact. Like a feral dog, he ruts against your pelvis, whining and groaning and pleading for more as his cock slides against the crotch of your jeans.

“Oh, I see.” A knowing smile tugs at your lips. “Did someone open a package that had didn’t have his name on it?”

“W-What??” This seems to momentarily distract him from his sexual misery. “You _knew?”_

“Of course I did.” Smirking, you slip your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and wrap your fingers around his stiff cock. “I was hoping it wouldn’t get here till _after_ I got home, but it seems it came early.” You huff out a laugh. “How long you been like this, babe?”

“All goddamn day,” he whimpers, his eyes meeting yours. “That fucking _flower_ did this. Some pink shit got in my— _fuck!”_ You give his cock a squeeze and cut him off.

“Serves you right for opening shit that doesn’t belong to you, Mare,” you reply coolly. “Have you learned your lesson?”

Vigorously, he nods, gasping as you squeeze his cockhead. “Yes. Yesyesyesyesyes, I-I’ll be good. _So_ good. Please. _Please.”_

Satisfied with this promise of obedience, you pull him in for another kiss, and your hand starts stroking his oversensitive dick. He whimpers and twitches through the whole process, his hands digging into your hips with bruising firmness. You squeeze the head of his cock and he nearly bursts into tears. 

“Fuck, it hurts,” he says in a rough voice, “please, lemme bury my dick in that cunt, babygirl. Need it. _Need it._ I’ll eat you out for the rest of the goddamn night if you—”

You don’t need to hear the rest of his sentence. Under normal circumstances, his moaning is more than enough to get you going, and this desperate edge to it just makes it all the fucking hotter. Hastily, you shuck off your pants and toss them carelessly away. With zero hesitation, he’s pressing into you, hooking one of your legs in the crook of his arm. He barely even remembers to pull aside your panties before he slides home in one quick thrust. 

“Fuck, Mary,” you say with a whimper of need, clinging to his shoulders for support. “Gonna cum inside me? Want you to fill me up with it… that dick feels so fucking good inside me.”

All he can do is moan in response, his face buried into the crook of your neck. The door rattles as he fucks into you with an almost animalistic ferocity. Distantly, you know the neighbors are going to talk about the noise, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Normally, Mary is more than considerate when it comes to getting you off—he likes making you come just as much as you like coming—but tonight is different. 

The only thing he cares about right now is his own satisfaction.

When he finally comes, it’s with a snarl and he slams into your pussy once, twice, three times. You can feel his cock pulse with each twitch of his hips. Desperately, you ride that same wave of pleasure to your own climax, squeezing his cock with your walls and moaning his name. There’s a moment where all is calm. Mary’s leaning against you, pinning you against the door, his heart pounding in his chest, and you think maybe the effects of the pollen are ebbing.

Oh, how wrong you are. 

Breathing hard, Mary lifts his head to look you in the eye, his expression exhausted but manic. A ragged moan escapes him and his voice is like broken glass when he speaks.

_“More.”_

And he keeps. Fucking. _Going._

Pussy _throbbing_ now, you cry out from the overstimulation, but he’s single-minded in his chase towards the precipice. With a snarl, he bites down _hard_ onto your neck, his hips never slowing. Your leg is beginning to ache from this position and you voice your displeasure; he bounces you a little to gain a better grip on your ass, and continues to pound you into oblivion.

“M-Mare,” you whimper, digging your nails into the meat of his shoulders. “Fuckfuckfuck!”

“Gonna come, gonna fuckin’ come, babygirl, squeeze me like—yeahhhhh, just like that, so fuckin’ good for me,” he pants, his voice trembling from exertion. “Look at you taking this dick, nngh, _fuck,_ so goddamn good. Gonna fill you up, princess. Take it, take _all—”_

His mouth crashes roughly into yours—his teeth bite down and draw blood, you taste the unmistakable tang of it on your tongue. With a moan muffled by his mouth, you squeeze him, and he tenses with a rough, strangled grunt. Again, his cock kicks inside you and he twitches through the aftershocks, whining and groaning in your ear. For a long moment, you both stay locked in that embrace, before he gingerly slips out of you and lowers your aching leg. You’re relieved to see his cock is soft.

“Fuck.” He slumps heavily against you, his legs visibly trembling with exhaustion.

“Mm, yes, that certainly was one,” you reply, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Guess you found my little surprise.”

“It’s… it’s good,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose into your shoulder and sighing. “No blood going to brain,” he adds, his arms coming around your waist. “Tired. So fuckin’ tired…”

“Poor boy,” you say with a laugh, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “C’mon, let’s go take a shower and get comfy. We can order delivery for dinner and chill on the couch.”

“Okay,” he says quietly, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. “Maybe opening that box wasn’t such a mistake after all.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt for this one! Possessive/Jealous Mary, Female Reader, Public Sex, Very Minor Degradation

Everyone  _ knows _ you’re Mary’s girl. 

Despite the fact that he’s weirdly evasive on making the two of you official, it’s common knowledge in the dive bars you frequent that you are strictly off-limits. Unless someone has a fucking deathwish, they know better than to try picking you up. You enjoy the benefits of being unofficially spoken-for. 

Namely, no one fucking bothers you at bars.

And with the way Mary likes to mark up your neck with hickeys and bite marks, you might as well have it tattooed on your forehead. When you put them on display with low-cut shirts and off-the-shoulder dresses, he goes absolutely feral for you. Most of the time when he greets you at the bar, he’s immediately making fresh ones, just to be certain that it’s crystal fucking clear to the locals.

Tourists, though. Tourists are the worst. They don’t know the  _ rules. _ So when some rando decides to interrupt your evening, you flash him a sweet but sympathetic smile.

“You must be new here,” you say, propping your elbow on the bar and planting your chin in your palm.

The other locals are eyeing both you and your chatty new acquaintance with trepidation. The bartender glances nervously at the door as if waiting for the inevitable. None of them step in to save this poor shmuck from his fate. He’ll learn the hard way.

“Heh, sure am, princess.” The guy gives you a cocky grin and leans a little closer, invading your space. He’s handsome enough, but he’s  _ not _ Mary. “Just got in this morning. Here on business. Got an early flight out tomorrow. You lookin’ for a good time?”

“Ooh.” Wincing in an exaggerated fashion, you pick up your drink and take a sip. “You’re gonna want to avoid calling me ‘princess.’ He can be a little possessive.”

“...Who?”

Suddenly, a leather-clad arm materializes out of thin air and slides around your exposed shoulders. The owner of said arm—a twig of a punkass with a messy devil lock hanging in his eyes—is glaring daggers at the tourist, his blood-spattered face contorted into barely-contained rage. You snuggle a little deeper into his side, delighting in the way the color has drained from the tourist’s face.

“Hey, baby,” he says to you, and leans in to press a kiss to your cheek. “Looking gorgeous, as always.”

“Hi, Mary,” you reply with a hum of approval and a smile.

One of his long fingers parts your hair and traces lovingly over the faded hickey along the nape of your neck. This seems to momentarily calm him. His eyes regard you with a special, just-for-you softness as his fingers move along your makeshift necklace, then they flick back to the stricken tourist. Immediately, his expression shifts to borderline murderous.

“Who’s your new friend, babe?”

“Oh, pff,” you scoff and make a show of smacking your forehead with the heel of your hand, “where  _ are _ my manners? Mary, this is…” You frown. “I’m so sorry; what was your name again, hon?” you ask of the tourist, batting your eyelashes innocently.

“...P-Percy,” he stammers, staring at Mary with wide, fearful eyes.

“Percy! Well, Percy, this is Mary Goore,” you say, leaning your head on Mary’s shoulder with a grin. “My Mary tends to be a little protective of me, aren’t you, Mare?”

Percy swallows hard. He’s by no means a small man—in fact, he’s a few inches taller than Mary—but he shrinks back regardless. 

“You weren’t thinking of hitting on my girl, were you?” asks Mary, his tone light and conversational, despite the dangerous look in his eye. His arm slips from your shoulders as he steps closer to the tourist, his head cocked to one side. “’Cause I gotta tell ya,  _ Perce, _ I don’t take too kindly to other dudes sniffing around my territory, yanno what I mean?”

“Oh, it’s not his fault, Mare,” you say with a dismissive wave of your hand. “After all, these marks are starting to fade.” Your voice becomes almost  _ hurt. _ “People might get the impression that I’m ripe for the picking.”

It’s definitely one of your more ham-fisted barbs, but it works just as intended. Mary flashes you a glare over his shoulder, just in time to catch you lightly stroking one of the more prominent bites he left on your collarbone. A muscle in his jaw jumps.

“You’re  _ not,”  _ he snarls, and turns back to Percy. “And pseudo-rapists like Percy here should learn to recognize the signs of a girl who’s goddamn spoken for.”

“H-Hey, man, I didn't know!” says Percy, stumbling backward with his hands upraised in a gesture of surrender. “Maybe you should fucking put a goddamn ring on her!”

As poor Percy scurries away from the bar and disappears into the crowd, you almost feel bad for him.  _ Almost. _ Still scowling, Mary slides into the now empty stool beside you at the bar, and tugs you closer. Smirking, you perch delicately on his knees and slide one arm around his neck for support. As “accidentally” as you can manage, you adjust to expose a subtle inch of fishnet-clad thigh—an act which does not escape Mary’s notice. Wordlessly, he presses a string of kisses to your neck while his hand slides beneath the loose hem of your skirt.

“Mm, he has a point, though. Ol’ Perce,” you say, tilting your head to one side to give Mary better access. “I mean, yesterday, a  _ local _ hit on me, Mare.”

His head snaps up.  _ “What. _ Who?”

“Oh, I don’t remember his name,” you reply airily. “Point is, someone’s gonna snatch me up if you’re not careful.”

“No one’s that fuckin’ stupid,” he growls, his nose wrinkling in anger. “You’re  _ mine.” _

“Am I?” Your eyes glitter as you meet his gaze. “You’ve never made it official, you know.”

“What do you call these, then?” His hand lifts and his fingers trace over the necklace of hickies he’s left along your collarbone, shoulders, and neck. 

“Some people just get marked up during casual lays.” You shrug. “And they fade… or they can be covered up.”

“You wouldn’t fuckin’  _ dare.” _

“Mm, what if I did, though?” you ask, contemplatively tapping your chin with one finger. “Gave myself a clean slate. Let some other guy paint me with—”

Suddenly, Mary leaps to his feet, jostling you out of his lap in the process. His hand seizes your wrist and he’s yanking you away from the bar. Exactly as you planned. Grinning like the cat that got into the cream, you let yourself be led into the men’s bathroom and pulled unceremoniously into the furthest stall from the door. 

“You fuckin’ brat,” snarls Mary, pinning you roughly against the wall.

“Ooh, Mary’s scary tonight,” you tease, smirking up at him as he crowds into your space. “Gonna teach me a lesson, Scary Mary?”

“You’re goddamn right.” Without another word, he spins you around and presses you against the cool painted brick. One of his hands slides up to grab a fistful of your hair, pulling your head backward as he ruts firmly against your ass. “Who do you fuckin’ belong to?” he asks, his voice a low, animalistic growl in your ear.

“Mm, I don’t know… his name’s slipped my mind entirely,” you purr, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Maybe I need my memory jogged.” No need for him to know that you flooded your basement the second he flipped you around.

“I’ll do more than that, princess.” 

“Better get to it, then.”

His mouth connects with your shoulder and he sucks another hickey into your skin. Meanwhile, his free hand is roughly yanking on your clothes, practically ripping them from your body. When he lifts your skirt and sees that you’re wearing a pair of red lace panties beneath the fishnets, a rumble of appreciation escapes him.

“Christ, you’re a fuckin’ slut for me, huh?” he mutters, and hastily manhandles his stiff cock out of his pants.

You open your mouth to respond, but instead of words, a surprised moan escapes you. Mary’s got his hand between your legs now, and as he marks your neck repeatedly with bites, his fingers probe at the wet crotch of your panties through the wide hole of your fishnets. You mewl, arching your back as best you can, desperate for more. With him pinning you against the wall the way he is, you can’t rock your hips back into his palm, eliciting a whine of distress from your lips.

“Mary, please—”

“Oh, now you remember my fuckin’ name?” With sudden impatience, he thumbs aside the sodden panties, and in one brutal thrust, buries his dick into your waiting pussy. “Who do you belong to?” he spits savagely, giving your hair a sharp tug as he pounds into you.

The walls of the stall rattle as you brace your hand against the door.

“It’s… it’s on the tip of my tongue,” you pant, frantically meeting every thrust of his hips with your own. “Just. Just a little more.”

Under normal circumstances, Mary is more than a gentleman when it comes to getting you off. He almost always insists on you coming at least twice before he does, but you’ve been riling him up and getting him angry. Now, he’s is  _ single-minded _ in his pursuit of his release, half-snarling filthy praise in your ear as he brutally fucks into you. The hand not tangled in your hair grips your hips with a bruising firmness, his black-painted nails biting into your skin and leaving crescent-moon indents.

“There, there, yeah,” you gasp, panting hard as he slams into you repeatedly. You’re right on the cusp on your climax, but he’s not through with you yet. “Don’t stop, harder—”

“Who do you fuckin’ belong to?” grunts Mary through clenched teeth, as he stalls to a sudden stop inside you. “Answer me, princess. Who owns this pussy? Who fucks it so good, better than  _ anyone _ you’ve ever had?”

“You do,” you whisper, whining in distress and trying to rock your hips to tempt him to continue. “I belong to you! Only you!”

“Say my fuckin’ name,” he commands, and swats your ass with the flat of his palm until it’s flushed and stinging. “I want them  _ all _ to fuckin’ hear you out there.”

“Mary!!” you cry out, nails scrabbling on the wall as he suddenly picks up speed, the lewd slap of his hips against your ass echoing around you. “Mary Goore owns this fucking cunt! No one fucks me like Mary,” you babble feverishly , canting your hips back into his thrusts, “Oh my god, I’m so close, please—”

“Come for me, babygirl. Squeeze my dick just fuckin’—yyyyeah, just like that,  _ good _ girl. So fuckin’ good for me, kitten.” The praise falls unendingly from his lips as he rushes headlong towards his own end. “Gonna fuckin’ come, sweetness. Gonna fill that sweet fuckin’ pussy up, stay just like that…”

With a wordless cry, you tense, and if you weren’t experiencing a climax so fucking intense that you momentarily saw through time, you might feel a little embarrassed by the sounds you’re making. As Mary holds your hips tight against his, snarling your name into the nape of your neck, you twitch helplessly from the power of your orgasm and he’s following you over the edge seconds later. His cock pulses and throbs as it empties inside you, his hips thrusting shallowly against you, and your tight pussy milks every last drop. When at last the pleasure ebbs, you feel boneless, exhausted. You press your flushed cheek to the cool wall and sigh.

“Fuck me,” pants Mary, breathing hard. He leans in to nuzzle at the nape of your neck and nips gently at your skin. “If you want me to fuck you senseless, baby, you just have to  _ ask. _ Why you gotta get me all fuckin’ pissed?”

“Mm,” you hum, biting back a smile as you turn around to face him. “Where’s the fun in that, though? You fuck better when you’re angry.” Your arms snake around his neck and draw him closer. “...You know I really am yours, though, right? Forever.”

With hooded, affectionate eyes, Mary gently bumps his forehead against yours and smiles. “You better be. I don’t give my heart to just anyone, you know,” he mumbles, and gives you a sweet kiss. “We should get outta here, though, someone might need to—”

“I can wait,” says a voice from beyond the stall door. “No rush.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Reader is sad and alone on Halloween after being ditched by their friends and they meet Mary by chance in the local cemetery

You didn't mean to end up in the graveyard. Your feet had just sort of... carried you. After your so-called "friends" had abandoned you in the middle of that costume party, alone in a sea of oddly-dressed strangers, you'd just started walking. Blinded by your tears of humiliation, you let your feet take you in a direction.

It isn't until you arrive at the wrought-iron entrance that you even realize where exactly you are.

"Sorrowwood Estates," you read aloud, looking up at the letters suspended in metal over the slightly ajar gate. "...I've never heard of this place. Who would call a graveyard an 'estate'?"

You cast a surreptitious glance over your shoulder, as of expecting someone to be lurking in the shadows. But no, you are utterly alone. With all your strength, you push open the gate a little more, wincing at its screech of protest, and slip through the gap. Once inside, you aimlessly meander through the forest of gravestones, reading each name aloud and making up stories about who could be interred there. It's a good diversion—one you desperately needed after the indignity you'd suffered at that party.

"Ugh, I'm so stupid," you mutter miserably, leaning against a nearby grave marker. "Why did I ever think they really wanted to be friends with me?"

"Well, I can't speak for whoever you're talking about, sugar," says a gravelly voice nearby, "but I'll be your friend."

With a gasp of shock, you leap away from the headstone and whirl on the spot to face the source of the voice. Materializing from the fog like an angel of death, his gaunt features illuminated by the flame of a lighter igniting a cigarette, a strange young man steps into view. Tall and thin and bloodied in the face, he looks ghastly—like some sort of unholy omen. Dark, stringy hair falls over intense, kohl-rimmed green eyes, and the many pins on his leather jacket rattle like bones. His boots are caked with what you think is mud—the low light makes it difficult to tell. Despite appearances, he makes no move to threaten you or even come closer. Instead, he cracks a charmingly lopsided grin as he inhales from the clove cigarette between his lips.

"Wh-who are you?" you ask, eyeing him with trepidation.

"Didn't you hear me? I'm your new best friend, babe," he replies, his voice muffled by his lips closed around his clove. "You can call me Mary."

"...That's a strange—"

He snorts. "Hey, I didn't fucking' pick it." He plucks the cigarette from his lips and cocks his head to the side as he regards you. Smoke curls out from his mouth. "What're you doing skulking around a cemetery at this hour, sweet thing? Someone might get the wrong impression of you."

You're not sure why exactly, but there's something about his face that puts you at ease. You could tell him your life story. With a sigh, you lean back against the headstone, eyes cast downward at your boots. Tears spring up unbidden, blurring your vision. You sniff.

"...Uh, I just got... fucking humiliated at this party. Some friends of mine thought it would be funny to ditch me—"

"Cunts," snarls Mary, cutting across you.

Tears forgotten, your head jerks up in shock—he's suddenly standing much closer, his leather-clad arm lightly brushing against yours as he mirrors your half-sitting lean on the headstone. His thick, dark brows are furrowed and there's a rage in the inky depths of his eyes that has goosebumps prickling the back of your neck. You stare up at him in both wonder and slight fear, and wet your lips.

His eyes flick down to follow your tongue's movement.

"Y-Yeah... I come out of the bathroom and they're all gone," you say, sheepish in your admittance. “Left me there with all those strangers.”

"So you got shit taste in 'friends.'" He takes a long drag from the cigarette. "Doesn't explain why you're here," he says in a quiet, gentle voice.

"I didn't mean to. I just started walking." You shrug one shoulder and look away from him. "I wanted to be away from everyone."

"And here I am, ruining that solitude." Mary gives a short, sharp laugh. It is utterly devoid of humor. "Lucky you."

You're unsure what to say. On the one hand, being alone is what you wanted, and he certainly is intruding in that respect. On the other hand, it felt... good to talk to someone. Even a complete stranger. Mary didn't feel like a stranger, though, and that is perhaps the strangest thing about him. It's as if you're old friends, reconnecting after years. A sort of comfortable silence falls across the pair of you. For just a moment, you sit there with him as he finishes his cigarette, your eyes trained on the overcast skies. Occasionally, the clouds part and you catch a glimpse of twinkling stars.

Perhaps this was fate.

"You wanna get outta here?" Mary says, after flicking away the spent butt of his cig. Casually, he slings a lanky arm around your shoulders, and you find you don't mind.

You look at him, curious. "And go where?"

He shrugs one shoulder, his gaze holding yours. "Nowhere. Anywhere. It's Halloween night and the world is our fuckin' Reese's Cup, baby." That lopsided grin curves his lip, infectious and charming and brimming with promise.

A little laugh escapes you, and you find yourself mirroring his grin. "Yeah, okay. I love Reese's."

"Ditto," he says, guiding you off the headstone and out of the cemetery. "Yanno, I ain't just an expert at eating candy," he adds, as his eyebrows bounce suggestively.

"Oh?" You smirk and slip a hand into his back pocket. "Lucky me."


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The 'granny panties' scene from Bridget Jones' Diary but Mary/Reader

Mary Goore is brutally fucking hot.

Anyone with eyes can see it. With his eyes dark and intense, his perfect jawline dusted with stubble, and his long, pretty neck just begging to be marked up, he could easily make a killing as some kind of gutter punk, goth-chic model. He makes girls and boys alike swoon when he walks into the room.

But _you_ are the only one he has eyes for. After weeks of bumping into him at the local dive bars and shamelessly flirting back and forth, you finally talk him into coming home with you. As expected, he’s been all over you the moment you step inside. The pair of you make your way to the couch, and you slip easily into his lap.

"Christ, baby," he purrs, as his hands freely explore you, "this is a body that could drive a man to fuckin’ sin. You’re a bad influence on me."

“Like you don’t sin already without my influence, good or bad,” you reply, tilting your head to one side to give his questing mouth better access to your neck.

“Well, yeah, I do, but—” Suddenly, Mary freezes beneath you. “Holy shit? Oh my God.”

You open your eyes to find him staring down at your hips. Confused, you follow his gaze. In his groping, he’s rucked up your skirt, and now his eyes are fucking glued to the unflattering pair of granny panties you’d put on underneath your fishnets. Paradoxical things that they are, they do wonders for your figure and thus increase the chances to be seen unclothed, but they’re mortifying to be caught in. Mary’s face splits into an ecstatic grin.

“Shit,” you hiss, your face suddenly hot, as you try and slap his hands away from your skirt. “Goddammit...”

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, hands latching onto your hips to prevent you from going anywhere. “These have gotta be the biggest fuckin’ panties I’ve ever seen! Absolutely _enormous—_ hey, no, where you think you’re going?”

“I’m leaving. Right now. Or I’ll fucking die,” you reply, fruitlessly attempting to cover your shame and wriggle out of his lap. Despite your evident embarrassment, he keeps you firmly seated on his thighs, his arms snaking around your waist.

“Good fucking God, woman,” he snorts, grinning that infuriating lopsided grin that seduced you in the first place. “I fuckin’ like ‘em, okay?” Tongue peeking out from between his snaggleteeth, he snaps the high waistband of your briefs. “Come to Daddy...”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt.

his arms are around you, safe and warm and secure. his nose is buried into the back of your neck, drinking in the scent of your hair and skin. his heart beats strong and sure and steady against your spine.

Mary Goore is soft.

he'd die before saying so out loud. he has a reputation, after all—a carefully-cultivated garden of barbed wire and broken glass and jagged metal that surrounds his bruised and blackened heart. it had been no small feat, navigating his maze of vitriol and spite, but here you are, at that heart, basking in his glow. it's nice here, locked in the epicenter of Mary's love, and it makes your stomach twist whenever he reveals secret bits to you—pieces of himself that no one else sees.

he shifts behind you with a sigh, chasing the elusive comfortable position. his nose brushes against the nape of your neck. a beat of silence and then...

"You awake?" he mumbles into your hair. his voice is a deep rumble against your back. he presses his mouth to your shoulder.

"Mm," is all you say in answer.

he grunts in reply, and his hands begin to move across your skin. they slip easily beneath the shirt you sleep in, caressing your curves. his hips twitch, subtly rutting his erect dick against your ass.

"You okay, Mary?" you ask, trying your best to ignore the palm drifting up to your nipples.

"Can't sleep. You're soft." he mumbles the words. his fingers pinching your nipples. "Fuck. So soft. Wanna cum just like this."

"Mmm... okay," you whisper, and you cant your hips back to meet his shallow, rocking thrusts. "You're so hard, Mare."

he moans low and rough in your ear. your cunt throbs in answer to this animalistic noise, and you arch your back in desperation. as if reading your thoughts, he snakes a hand down to cup your pussy, one finger stroking slow and light along your slit. when he finds you wet already, he growls his approval, which only spurs you on. with one hand on your tits and the other working your soaked cunt, Mary grinds himself against the curve of your ass, almost lazy as he works you up with expert precision.

"So fucking soft and warm," he grunts. "So perfect. So delicious. So... _mine."_

"All yours, Mary. Always. Only yours. God, I'm gonna fucking come... please, I need—"

Mary growls and slides two fingers into your eager pussy, moaning when you clench around them. it doesn't take long for him to bring you to that delicious apex, his fingers flicking and pinching and stroking across your erogenous zones until you're a writhing, sweaty mess. when you come, it is with his name falling from your lips like a prayer. he follows you over the edge second later, his hips rocking roughly against yours. hot and sticky ropes of cum smear across your skin.

you feel good. boneless and warm and so very wet. Mary slides his fingers from your cunt and into his mouth. he sighs with pleasure.

"Fuck. Goddamn, woman, you taste as soft as you look..."

and he kisses you to prove it.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt. A very personal chapter.

The cemetery is peaceful. It’s quiet, too. Just a forest of headstones covered in moss. Why do we all seem to be instinctively afraid of these places? Nothing there but dead loved ones and whispers in the wind, carved names in rock and rich, dark loam.

It’s a good place to think sometimes.

You sit perched on a headstone, staring up at the cloud-swirled sky, deep in thought. At the sound of rustling leather and boots crunching on gravel behind you, a little smirk curves your lip. You don’t need to turn around to see who it is that approaches.

“Well,” you say casually. “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Goore.”

“You’re not usually up this late,” replies Mary, as he moves around the headstone to sit beside you. He pulls from his leather jacket a crumpled pack of cigarettes and pulls one out with his lips. “...Something happen?”

You can tell from his tone that he’s anxious about your answer. Truth be told, you are too. Somehow, saying it out loud feels... official. A lump forms in your throat and you swallow hard past it. Miraculously, you find your voice.

“It’s over. Me and him. I left. Just... packed a bag and went to a hotel. Planning to get the rest of my shit tomorrow.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s waiting. You can feel his eyes practically boring a hole into your skull. Your eyes are trained on the heavens and despite your best efforts, you’re tearing up. With a sniffle, you give the stars a watery smile and a choked laugh. You’ve been practicing what you would say to him since you got here, and now the words are dead in your throat.

“...Did he hit you?” Mary’s voice is quiet, but you can feel the cold rage radiating off him like ice. It’s oddly comforting.

“No, he never hit me,” you mutter, tearing your eyes away from the sky to look down at the mud caked on your boots. “He... never _touched_ me, really. Not for... years. Not even a hug or a kiss. After awhile, I stopped bothering to ask. Beg, really. And even then he still wouldn’t—”

"What a fucking jackass.”

You look up. Mary’s dark brows are knitted into a livid scowl over those intense green eyes, the bent cigarette unlit and forgotten dangling from his lips. A muscle in his jaw jumps as he meets your gaze. Such ferocity in his eyes, on your behalf, brings a warmth to your extremities and your heart swells. Slowly, you put your cheek on his shoulder, and wind your arms around his. The tears fall freely now and you don’t make any move to wipe them away.

“Twelve years,” you whisper, sniffling. “Twelve years I’ve wasted on him. Twelve years living with his fucking... raging tantrums and his unrealistic expectations of me and his endless, _endless_ guilting.”

”How was he?” asks Mary, his tone nonchalant. It’s not hard to pick up on his insinuation. He’s about as subtle as a rock.

You snort. “Well, I never uhhh... got there. If you know what I mean.”

“Dick game too weak?”

“The weakest.”

“What about his tongue?” Mary finally fishes a lighter from his pocket and brings the flame to the cigarette without jostling you too much.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What??” Mary pulls back suddenly and he looks down at you, incredulous. He plucks the cigarette from his lips, brows furrowed. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“Nope. He started to once but then he stopped and left me there.” Self consciously, you fiddle with one of the zipper pulls on his jacket. “Figured it was my fault. Cried a bit afterward. That was the last time we tried to...” That lump rises in your throat again, choking your words, and you fall silent.

“Christ, what an ungrateful piece of shit,” snarls Mary viciously. He takes one long drag and flicks the half un-smoked cigarette away. “Listen, it ain’t you, okay? He’s the one with the hangups.”

You lift your head to look up at him and your heart squeezes at the soft look in his eyes. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of the close proximity of his lips to yours.

“Mary..?”

“I wanna show you, baby. Treat you like you deserve to be treated. Please, let me—”

Slowly, as if to gauge your reaction or see any sort of resistance, he leans in and steals a kiss from your lips. The first in _years_ for you _._ A squirming, pleasant feeling wells up in your chest and your fingers curl in the neck of his shirt. He rumbles with approval, tilts his head to one side, and deepens the kiss. It’s wholly unlike any kiss you’ve ever experienced. So much better than any of the kisses from other sources. You sigh in pure ecstasy.

Mary pulls away just a little, breathing heavily, his eyes searching yours for acceptance or anger. You smile a little, suddenly shy.

“...Can you show me other things, too?”

He grins. “I absolutely can.”

**Author's Note:**

> filthy-rat.tumblr.com


End file.
